


tomorrow some new building will scrape the sky

by acid_glue234



Series: you're just another song and dance [10]
Category: Glee
Genre: Confessions, Drama, F/F, Friendship, Humor, Mild Language, New York City
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:52:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2127468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acid_glue234/pseuds/acid_glue234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana focuses her eyes elsewhere and then takes a pull from the half-empty bottle, swallowing with a wince at the taste. She doesn't understand why they always buy this cheap-ass whiskey, but it sure gets the job done. (Part X of the "you're just another song and dance" series, Santana's POV)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. oh yeah, you're the best damn friend that i'll ever have

There are things they talk about, and then there are things they _don't_ talk about, bring up, discuss, or even mention. Ever. Santana's even had to make a list so that she doesn't forget and make an embarrassing slip up by mistakenly mentioning their kiss on New Years, or that one time Santana admitted to wanting to see Rachel naked, or their most recent kiss up on the rooftop, or that super humiliating time Santana walked in on Rachel coming out of the shower. 

And the list doesn't stop there; some of these unmentionable things, Santana wants to talk about, but whenever she thinks about broaching the subject, Rachel appears with this smile on her face, and Santana would literally do anything to keep it there. She doesn't want to make either one of them uncomfortable or awkward, especially considering that last conversation they had about their _feelings_. 

Rachel doesn't bring it up again, so Santana goes on to pretend their little discussion up on the rooftop never happened. It's not that she's not into Rachel or not attracted to her, because she is. She _really_ is, but Rachel only wanted her to quench the pain of her rejection, and Santana would've given that to her had this been the beginning of their friendship, but now it would've been too weird. It might've even ruined everything they've built together in terms of trust. 

Santana likes having a girl friend who is _just_ a friend. She doesn't have many of those as it is, and Rachel's the only girl who's never sexualized her, or used her as a body rather than a human being. Santana doesn't want to ever lose that, so while sleeping with Rachel wouldn't have been the worst thing in the world, it also wouldn't have been the smartest, or for the right reasons. 

So, Rachel's sexually fluid. That's not that big of a shocker, really, but to know Rachel's attracted to her kind of is. Santana knows she's hot, but hot to Rachel? It wasn't something that really ever crossed her mind until that night on the roof, but now that it's there, it's going to take a fucking village to drag the idea out of her head. 

—

Her eyes have barely opened when she hears Rachel knocking things around in the kitchen. It's six o'clock in the morning on a fucking Sunday, but ever since they've moved out here and Rachel had to leave her precious elliptical behind in Lima, the girl has been running and jogging around New York like a madwoman. 

(During the week, she always goes to that creepy ass park to talk with that old man, but on the weekend, the elderly dude is visiting his grandchildren, so who knows where she is for that entire half hour?)

Santana doesn't climb out of bed until she hears Rachel get back in. They don't say anything to each other, because Santana doesn't do conversation until she's had a cup of joe, and Rachel knows that, so they share a smile as she makes them both coffee, Santana's black, and then they sit across the counter from each other. Rachel does her daily sudoku in the newspaper, and Santana stares off into space, thinking but not really thinking. 

After her fourth sip, she asks, "How was your jog?" 

"Surprisingly pleasant despite the dangerous amount of ice and snow accumulated on the ground," Rachel says, because she's incapable of describing something as uncomplicated as a jog with the simple words _it was fine_. "You should accompany me more, Santana. I think the fresh air and exercise would do wonders for your cynical mood. Remember, positive physical movement releases endorphins that improves naturally bad attitudes and—" 

Santana doesn't let her finish, lifting a hand to casually cut her off, because once Berry gets started, there's really no stopping her. "Does sex count as positive physical movement?" she wonders, because if there's even any truth to what Rachel said, she should honestly be a lot happier with her life. Rachel peeks up from her sudoku, slowly, but doesn't say anything. "I mean, it might not release endorphins, but it sure does succeed in releasing—"

"Yes, I see where you're going with this," Rachel interrupts, folding the newspaper and sticking it under her arm as she gets up to refill her mug, "and while I sometimes find your suggestiveness rather clever, I have a bad feeling that whatever you're about to say has a very high chance of making me cringe."

Santana only laughs and then gets back to the point. "Thanks for the invite, Rach, but I think I've done enough running during my three and a half years as a Cheerio to last me a lifetime," she says, feeling her muscles tighten up at just the thought of Coach Sylvester's early morning summer workouts. "Suicides, wind sprints, laps, tree lines; I will have nightmares of running for the rest of my fucking life.”

And she means what she says, but then Rachel rounds the counter to pop a slice of whole wheat bread into the toaster, and Santana’s eyes unwillingly land on sleek, defined calves. 

With all that dancing and running around, Rachel’s building a nice physique, _fast_ , and there’s no way Santana’s going to fall behind. Running might give her nightmares, but that’s nowhere close to the disturbing wet dreams she'll be having for the next week after noticing things she should never ever notice. 

—

It's only March, and Santana still has about a month and a half to start preparing for NYU's summer sessions, but she's already getting anxious. She never felt this way about going to Louisville, mostly because she was absolutely certain she would hate it there—and she did—but NYU actually has the opportunity to be a good experience for her, and that's what bothers her the most, because what if she gets her hopes up and it's nothing like she imagined it'd be? What if her teachers suck, and EMF ends up not being her niche? What if her classmates suck ass and don't offer to help her, or don't let her borrow their notes if she falls behind? 

College has disaster written all over it—like, what idiot came up with this horrifyingly dense social experiment? 

Santana doesn't understand why anyone would willingly put themselves through four years of torture, only to wind up with a shitload of loans and college debt to pay off in the future. 

She doesn't understand it, not at all, until Rachel starts coming home from her dance classes with this gleaming smile—something Santana thought she'd never see, because Rachel had claimed to despise that class because of the teacher—but now she can't stop talking about how much she's been improving and how Miss July thinks she's done a pretty okay job this semester compared to the last, and maybe this is what college is about. 

Learning your true potential and breaking out of your comfort zone and meeting new people and trying new things. Of course it's going to be a struggle and _of course_ it's going to be frightening, but aren't all new things? 

Santana will just have to accept the path she's chosen to take, and take it. 

—

Somehow, their leisurely jog through Central Park has turned into a race. 

(It probably started when Santana tried to trip Rachel as they ran through the snow. As soon as Santana had taken off, she'd felt an ice, cold splat on the back of her neck and then cringed as it dripped down her back. She'd froze, mouth agape in both shock and disbelief.)

Okay, so maybe it’s not so much a race than Santana chasing Rachel around the park, throwing piles of snow at her to get her back for soaking her favorite elastic workout shirt. 

Rachel squeals and tumbles down into the snow when she trips over a stick, and now Santana's got her. Just to be a bitch, she stands over Rachel with two snowballs in hand, grinning wickedly as Rachel tries to shove Santana to the side and slide out from under her. 

A drop of liquid melts from one of the snowballs and drips onto Rachel's forehead, and Santana crouches down, Rachel's hips in between her thighs, as she shoves one of the snowballs down Rachel's shirt. 

Rachel's face contorts hilariously, but then she starts cracking up and begging Santana to get off of her, mumbling on about how this is cruel and unusual punishment, which is sorely against the eighth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution, or something. 

Rachel's laughing so hard that she's crying, and Santana can't help it; she starts laughing too, and then drops her last snowball as she rolls off of Rachel and into the snow. Rachel leans over her and pulls Santana's knit cap over her face. "I can't believe you did that," she huffs through a laugh, reaching her gloved hands into her sweater to clean out the rest of the melting snow. 

Santana laughs and then falls back to make a snow angel when she feels a vibration in her coat. Thank God her phone didn't fall out of her pocket—she totally forgot it was even in there—and pulls the device out, frowning at the caller ID before side-eyeing Rachel with an unwarranted amount of uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. 

Rachel looks over and mirrors her frown. "What's wrong?" 

"It's Quinn," she says, toying with the decision of whether or not she should answer the call, but eventually she presses ignore and then re-pockets the device. 

Santana's not stupid. She knows that Rachel feels insecure compared to Quinn, and the last thing she wants to do is make her best friend feel like an outsider. 

They're both quiet for a moment, but then Rachel sits up in the snow and brushes off her pants. "Do you know what she wants?"

Santana shakes her head. "We haven't spoken since the night of my birthday," she admits, which isn't much of a surprise. Quinn tends to pop up and then disappear whenever and however she chooses, and to be totally honest, Santana's so over it.

—

Quinn calls again a day later—which is kind of surprising, because she's not usually the pushy type when it comes to communication—and Santana wants to be strong and ignore her; she _really_ does, but Kurt's out with the costume design department, probably discussing the fabric of their lives, and Rachel's at her music theory lecture, so Santana picks up, though very reluctantly, because whenever Quinn contacts her, she either wants something, or she wants to _bitch_ about something. 

This time, it turns out to be the former. 

Apparently Quinn scored an internship at a publishing company in New York for a few weeks under some program Santana doesn't care to remember the name of, and she needs a place to stay. Against every part of Santana wanting to tell Quinn that she can bunk with her, there's just no way something like this will work out, especially when Santana thinks about Rachel's feelings on the topic, and so she regretfully tells Quinn that she'll have to find somewhere else to stay. 

Quinn was shit to Rachel in high school and never even apologized for it, so of course Rachel still holds some animosity towards the blonde. Quinn was Santana's best friend first, even before Brittany came along, and she feels bad for saying no, but what’s she supposed to do? 

It's not like Quinn's gonna have to sleep out on the grimy streets. She's smart. She'll probably end up finding somewhere nicer to crash anyway. 

—

Kurt gets a part-time job working at Vogue. Talk about out of nowhere. It seems he hit it off with the chief executive of the famous magazine, and now he's her (lapdog) assistant. All he really does is fetch her coffee, offer her good ideas to steal, and pick up her laundry. 

That kid sure likes to pile up his extracurriculars and then willingly run himself into the ground with work, work, work. Henry complains to her about it all the time, how he never gets to see Kurt, and how he's made so many sacrifices for him, why can't Kurt do the same? Santana honestly doesn't know, kind of doesn't care either; all she knows is that they better get their fucking act together, because Kurt and Henry are the only two people who give Santana hope for true love. 

They're like, the Cory and Topanga to her Shaun, and no matter how inattentive Kurt tends to be, and no matter how needy Henry is, Santana knows those two losers are meant to be. She's not the only one who admires their relationship though. Rachel sometimes stares at them with this creepy grin and then goes on about how she wishes she could be with somebody who'd love her unconditionally and whatnot. 

Well. Tough _luck_. 

It's a big city—an even bigger world—but for real, what are the chances of finding your soulmate in this hellbent place, where everybody is more concerned with their own achievements than anyone else? 

First, you gotta look out for the crazies. After you've filtered through them, there's searching for someone you can actually get along with. Also, attraction is a must. They can be polite and friendly all they want, but if there's no chemistry, there's no nothing. 

See, Santana knows a little bit about this stuff, mostly from what Henry and Rachel's told her, but at least she's listening for once, because if there's one thing Santana doesn't want, it's to be alone. She's not desperately searching for _the one_ , like a lot of the people in her age group are obsessed with doing these days, but that doesn't mean she's deliberately ignoring any signs of love. If it comes knocking, she won't slam the door in anyone's face, especially if they're cute and blonde. 

What can she say; she has a type. 

Ever since rejecting Daniel for like, the billionth time, Rachel hasn't seemed too concerned over her love life, or lack thereof, and it's fucking weird. In high school, Rachel was always chasing someone. Whether it was Jesse St. Dildo, or Finnept—or even Mr. Schue for that one trippy week back in sophomore year when they sang ballads in glee—it's always been _someone_. 

But instead of looking for that special someone, Rachel's become more content with chilling at their apartment on Friday nights, either catching up on shows they missed during the week, or more preferably, yelling at the television screen as they watch the March Madness tournament. 

It's always just the two of them, because Kurt's a busy motherfucker, Cole is probably getting high somewhere, Daniel and Angela have been MIA—not like Santana even cares where Rachel's loser friends are—Henry is at a sports bar with Lawrence, and Gwen...well, Santana doesn't even know who Gwen is, so who the fuck cares?

Tonight they're watching March Madness, because Santana's got money on Kentucky. They're winning right now, by about ten points, but in basketball that could all change in a matter of minutes depending on which team has the momentum, and Rachel's cheering along whenever the crowd on TV gets hyped, so it's pretty clear she has no idea what's going on. 

Santana's tried to explain football, soccer, basketball, and tennis to the girl, but either Rachel doesn't pay attention when she speaks, or her memory is only good for memorizing lyrics, lines, and useless information about Broadway and Barbra Streisand. But Santana has to admit; it’s extremely hilarious whenever Rachel yells _touchdown!_ every time a shot is made, and she has to remind Rachel that this is basketball. There are no touchdowns.

"Then what are we supposed to yell when they make a shot?" 

Santana laughs through a smile. "Nothing, you just cheer, or like, whoop." 

Confused, Rachel makes a face—lips pursed, eyes squinted—which pretty much means she doesn’t fully understand the point in all of this, but she’s game and goes along with it anyway, and the next time a basket is made, Rachel hollers so fucking loud that the old woman who lives downstairs takes a broomstick to the other side of their floorboards. 

Not only that, but she's still cheering for the wrong fucking side. "Mrs. Roberts is gonna have a bone to pick with you tomorrow morning,” Santana teases, and Rachel rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to probably say something about how much old people love her, but then Kurt comes in, stomping his feet out on the welcome mat with a very visible shiver. 

"It is a frozen hell out there," he grits out between clenched teeth, and then brushes a bundle of white flurries out of his hair. "It's almost April, but it's still blizzarding. What kind of horrible place is this?"

"A grunge winter wonderland," Santana suggests, casually lifting a hand, but then they all grimace at that visual, because New York in the winter is actually fucking disgusting. For the first hour of a blizzard, there's a pretty white layer of snow, but once the cars and snowmobiles and trucks come out, the pure white turns brown and black and just damn gross. "Don't worry, Hummel, it'll soon be all rainbows and lollipops, and no one will judge you for walking around in your hot pants."

"They're called dazzle shorts."

“Yeah, like that’s _any_ better.”

Kurt ignores her—which, not very nice—and then throws his wet coat over a chair at the kitchen table to dry off. "Well, at least I'll have _someone_ to admire me in whatever shorts I choose to wear."

Rachel flinches harder than Santana does at that statement, and Kurt looks apologetic for a moment, but fuck that; they don't need his pity. Santana is hot and single, and so is Rachel. They don't need someone telling them they look sexy in dazzle shorts—whatever the hell those are—because Santana's constantly complimenting Rachel on how good her ass looks, and Rachel tells Santana at least three times a day that her tits are the perfect kind of even. 

Who needs a muscular ginger boy telling them they're hot stuff when they can do that easy job themselves?

"I wouldn't hold my breath, Kurtsie," Santana drawls, smirking wickedly, "because the more you work, the more Henry's attention will be on _other_ men's dazzle shorts."

Eyeing her critically, Kurt sits down on the edge of his chair. "And what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Rachel looks between them for a beat, and then timidly mentions, "Henry's out with Lawrence."

The way Kurt tries to mask his annoyance is actually painful to watch. They all know Lawrence isn't one of Kurt's favorite people. Hell, Santana can't stand the dude either, but he's Henry's best and oldest friend, so who is she to say whether he can or cannot hang out with him? Henry's a grown ass man. Like, literally. The guy's like, what, twenty-five or something. 

Santana's not gonna pull that high school shit here and tell Henry that if he doesn't drop Lawrence as a friend, then she's out, because that's just stupid, and it seems Kurt feels the same way, because he just smiles weakly and goes on to pretend he doesn't care, even when it's totally clear that he totally does. 

After a while, Kurt escapes to his corner, behind the pretense that he hates watching sports, but it's quite obvious that's not the reason he's skittering out of the living room as if his slacks are on fire. 

Rachel sighs. "Was that really necessary to mention, Santana?" 

There is no way Santana's going to take the fall for this. "You're the one who told him that Henry was out with fuck-face."

"But _you're_ the one who revealed he was going to lose Henry because of his job."

"Look, it's not like I was saying it to provoke him," Santana says, but then Rachel gives her a pointed look. “Okay, fine, so that's not the _only_ reason why, but I’m just warning the kid, okay? I'm Henry's homegirl, whatever; but Kurt's my friend, first and foremost, so he deserves to know what's happening, even if it hurts," Santana says with a shrug, because it's just that simple. 

But then Rachel smiles at her, the same way she used to look at Finn—eyes all aglow, with that thin smile that stretches all the way across her face, head bowed as she peeks up from under her long bangs.

Santana's been noticing that look a lot as of late, but she tries not to spend too much time reading into things that don't mean anything. That's what Rachel and Kurt and Henry waste time doing, and it never gets them anywhere, so what's the point? 

It's kind of uncomfortable sitting here in silence like they're doing right now, so Santana forces a smile, tugs on her necklace, and then turns the volume back up. 

Shit. Kentucky's losing. 

—

Angela comes in for coffee during one of the most inconvenient times, because it's overly crowded this morning, and the people of New York seem extra crankier than usual, but when has that ever stopped Angela from holding up the line to have an unnecessary conversation that could totally wait until another time? 

"You're cute when you're mad," she teases, after Santana growls under her breath when Angela refuses to answer the simple question, _How may I help you?_

Santana sighs. "We've been down this gay rainbow before, Queer Bait. Didn't work out." 

That's basically an understatement though, because their short fling—or whatever you want to call two weeks of confusion—was just a huge waste of time. 

Angela is the biggest cop out, like, ever. She says she's one thing, and then takes it back. She says she'll do this and that, and then takes it back. She promises a good time, with lots of making out and touching and fondling, and then fucking _takes it all back!_  

And it's no wonder too, because Angela's not gay, or even a little bit bisexual. A little kissing and some boob-grabbing was a far as anything ever went with the two of them, so excuse Santana for being slightly dismissive of her right now. 

Angela hums and then places a hand on her hip. "You really think I'm flirting with you?" 

"You're always flirting with me." 

Angela fights back a smile. "Flirting with you would actually be the worst stab in the back ever. So, no thank you, Santana. I'd rather not hurt my friend." 

Now, _that_ gets her attention. The rest of the cranky customers in line completely disappear, and Santana leans a little over the counter with a smirk. "Your friend likes me?" she says, definitely interested, because it's been a while, and sleeping with Cole is getting old, fast. "Who is she?" 

Angela zips her lips shut, and then ironically says, "I can't say." 

"Have I seen her before?" Santana digs, tilting her head sideways. "At least tell me what she looks like. Her name. Anything."

"Can't. Sorry. I've already said too much." 

Santana groans through a crooked smile, leaning back with a roll of her eyes, because _of course_. Angela always takes back. "Such a tease," she mutters, reaching down to tighten her apron. 

Angela's crystal blue eyes lower before bouncing back up. "So I've been told," she drawls, smiling like she knows something juicy, and she probably does. "I can't hook you up with my friend, but what I _can_ do is hook you up with a job that doesn't make you wanna shoot yourself in the face." 

Santana very much doubts that. Firstly, there aren't a lot of jobs in this city worth anything without a college degree, and secondly; yeah fucking right, how is Santana supposed to trust this girl? Nothing she ever says is valid. 

"What kinda job?" she asks anyway, because Cobblestones really does suck. The customers are rude as hell, there are bugs all over the damn place, and don't even get Santana started on her good-for-nothing boss. "If it has any affiliations with the mob, I'm not." 

Angela only smirks, which probably isn't a good thing. God, she looks so much like Brittany that Santana just can't help but feed into her bullshit. "It doesn't. _Promise_ ," she says, and then her eyes light up, and there's no going back now, especially when she adds, “and I know how much you like those." 

Cheeks flaming, Santana mutters, "I'm gonna kill Rachel," because there's really no other way Angela could have discovered that without talking to her so-called bestie. 

“Oh, please, you say that all the time, yet she always miraculously appears in dance class every Tuesday morning regardless," Angela says, not in the least bit concerned. 

She digs into her pocket for a card, and Santana briefly wonders if Rachel put Angela up to this, because why else would she offer Santana a better job? Santana only puts up with Angela because she's Rachel's friend, and Angela only sticks around here because it's the closest coffee shop to the NYADA campus. 

"Here, call this number," Angela slides the card across the counter with a sly grin, "and I guarantee you will not be sorry." 

Santana eyes the card skeptically. It's pink and it smells like pink—whatever that means. "If this is some hooker's number, I swear, Moretti; I will punch you in the face." 

Angela's grin only widens, like Santana just told her she'd do something freaky with her. A punch in the face can't really be interpreted any other way, so Santana leaves it to Angela just being a weirdo. 

"Good to know your threats are empty." Angela winks at her before walking out of the shop, but what she doesn't know is that only the threats made against Rachel are empty. 

Everyone else? 

Open season. 

—

She's chilling on the couch with a bowl of cereal, watching an episode of _I Love Lucy_ , when the metal door slides open, and it's Henry, because Kurt gave him a key about a month or so ago. Santana's never been in an adult relationship before, but she swears they're doing this thing all wrong; like, shouldn't it be Henry who gives Kurt a key to his place since he lives _alone_? 

All she knows is he better not be moving in here. She loves the guy, but there is barely enough space here for the three of them. Fuck a new roomy, especially since the living arrangement contract they all signed clearly stated that no significant others can ever stay here for more than one week—and it was Kurt's rule to begin with, so that's not gonna fly, ever. 

Henry plops down heavily on the couch, bouncing Santana and her bowl of cereal, which almost spills over. The seat creaks, and Santana rolls her eyes, because if she gets in trouble with Rachel for breaking the couch, she is so going to shave Henry's curly red hair in his sleep. Imagine that guy bold though. His head is probably like, covered in freckles. 

"So, how's the final draft coming along?"

"You're here to talk about my draft," Santana repeats, because that's bullshit. Henry could have texted her about that, so it's pretty damn clear he came halfway across town to see Kurt. Too bad Porcelain's out, as always, rehearsing with the Adam's Apples for their big show next Saturday. 

Henry smiles at her, eyebrows knit together. "Kurt told me something the other day that I found very interesting," he says, and Santana clenches her jaw, because do they have to talk about this _now_? Her show is on; Henry can at least wait until the fucking commercial before blabbering on about his dumb love life. But he doesn't. Because he has no manners. "And I think you'll find it interesting too."

Santana puts the television on mute and then looks at him impatiently. "What?"

"You know, despite what you might think, this _is_ about your script."

"Of course it is," she drawls, and then nods, not believing that for a fucking second. 

It's annoying how pleased Henry looks with himself when he says, "But it could also be about something _else_."

This is getting boring, fast. "Which is..."

"Your odd friendship with Rachel," he says, and that was kind of the last thing Santana expected to hear. 

Her interest is immediately piqued, and she sits up a little straighter on the couch. "Odd? How are we odd?" Santana asks, but doesn't way for a response, because just the fact that she and Rachel can be friends is what's odd. "C'mon, Henry, cut the vague bull. What did Hummel tell you?" She looks at him carefully, because that boy likes to gossip more than a tweenage girl.

"It's about one of the main characters in your screenplay," Henry trails off, picking at one of the holes in his super tight jeans, "and how she holds a slightly disturbing resemblance to a certain short brunette who lives in this apartment.”

Santana just stares at him, and then chuckles, because what he's insinuating is kind of fucking hilarious, but then the laughter dies in her throat at the look on Henry's face. Oh. He's serious. "You think I modeled Kara after _Rachel_?"

Green eyes narrow in on something to the side of Santana's head. “Well, I was talking to Kurt on the phone the other day, and he mentioned something about one of the characters, so I read it over and—"

She's goddamn insulted, and hell if she's going to let him finish. "I didn't. She's an original character," Santana grits out, because, for whatever reason, it feels like he's challenging her creativity by saying one of her made-up characters have already been created, but that's just straight up bull. 

Henry's not dumb, and he knows how to tell when she's on the brink of explosion. "Of course, Santana," he says gently, but it feels more like she's being patronized. "All I'm saying is that you unconsciously created a character that already exists in the real world as the hero in your story. I mean, I'm no therapist, but I did major in psych, and this kind of sounds like—"

"Henry, don't psycho-analyze me," Santana snaps, and then stands up from the couch. She heads into the kitchen, and so help her if Henry's following behind. 

Somehow, he knows better and gives Santana her space. But his voice still travels in from the living area, saying "I'm just trying to figure a few things out."

"Well, can you maybe do that another time at somebody else's place, because my show is on, and I don't really feel like being fucking read right now," Santana mutters, and she's really not trying to be defensive, but he's totally insulting her work right now, and that shit is like her baby. "I'm not a book, and Rachel's not a fucking character, okay?"

There's a loaded silence as Santana pours herself a glass of water and just stares at it.  "Okay," she hears him say, eventually, and then the metal door slides shut with a clang. 

—

Just like Henry, Quinn is fucking nuts. Always has been. She's smart as hell, has the focus of a champion archer, and reads people like a stolen diary, but she's always been kind of psycho-ish when it comes to being a normal person and like, socializing correctly. 

(Not that there's a right way and a wrong way, but if there was, Quinn would be doing it the wrong way, all the damn time.) 

Santana meets her for lunch in the city one afternoon—she ended up staying with another friend who lives out here that Santana doesn't know, but whatever—because even though Santana had to decline her request to stay in the loft, they're still cool. Quinn's fucked her over enough times, so they're technically even now, and Quinn gets that. Their friendship is a weird design, and even though Santana will probably never understand Quinn, she is still a good person to bitch out with. 

As soon as Santana steps into Big Lenny's—this disgusting bistro on the outskirts of town, kindly and unnecessarily recommended by Angela—Santana can feel a storm cloud looming over the place, and then she spots Quinn in the corner, looking over a greasy paper menu with about as much disgust as to be expected.

Santana smirks and then sits down across from Quinn. "This place is dirtier than the stank hobo who lives outside of Cobblestones."

Amused, Quinn's lip twitches up into a barely noticeable smile. " _You_ recommended it."

"Nuh-uh. Rachel's friend recommended this place," she says, and then picks up a menu. Hopefully the food here is good; it'd be the only possible reason why a shitty place like this would still be up and running. 

"Why am I not surprised that the _only_ friends Berry has made are people who make it a habit of eating out of unsanitary restaurants such as this," Quinn says, not even trying to hide the distaste in her voice. 

Somehow, those harsh words feel more like a dig at her than at Rachel. "Okay, can you refrain from being a bitch for just one second, please?" Santana snaps, scowling over her menu. "Let's get a few things straight here before we continue, because I can sense you're still a little miffed that I chose Rachel over you in this _one_ situation. Don't take that out on her; she doesn't even know you're in town, and I doubt she cares. Just don't talk shit about her, because she's my best friend too, and I'm not gonna referee some dumbass, one-sided shit with you, got it?"

Quinn looks like she wants to counter her argument, and to be honest, Santana's expecting a rebuttal, but this time Quinn surprises her with a sincere smile. It's fake as hell, sure, but at least Quinn's willing to pretend she's not pissed off about any of this. "Got it," she says, and then replaces the smile on her face with knowing, pursed lips. "Now, tell me, exactly when did Rachel get to you?"

Confused, Santana taps her nails against the tabletop. “Get to me…”

"I usually wouldn't use such crude language, but since when does Berry own your metaphorical balls?"

Santana almost chokes on laughter; not only because Quinn just said _metaphorical balls_ , but because she thinks Rachel owns them. "Did you just call me Rachel's bitch?"

"No," Quinn says, still looking at her with this unsettling smirk. "I'm saying you have a crush on her."

"Are you on coke?"

Quinn only laughs. "So, how are you planning on getting her to like you back, what with all your meat-eating and earth-killing?"

Santana doesn't find this amusing in the slightest, but it's not the first time someone's insinuated that she likes Rachel, and it's not like an insult or anything, so whatever. "I'll use my devastatingly good looks and wicked charm to reel her in."

Laughing, Quinn looks back down at her menu, and Santana's stomach growls at the reminder of food. They really should go order something before this place gets shutdown for violating the regulatory health codes, but then Quinn peers back up at her with a serious expression, asking, "Does Rachel—did you tell her about us?" 

Santana arches a brow, because there is no _us_. Quinn made that perfectly clear, and once Santana had time to reevaluate the act of sex versus what she was feeling, there was really only one conclusion; casual, easy nights of freedom and fun should never be mistaken for more. 

Santana obviously knows what Quinn's referring to, but she makes her elaborate anyway, just to be a bitch. "Did you tell her that we had—that we slept together?" Quinn practically stammers, as if saying the words will send her straight to hell. 

Santana grinds her molars for a second. "Of course I told her. It's not a secret or anything," she says with an easy shrug, casually admiring her nails; it's a weird habit that only Quinn brings out in her. Damn Cheerios. "Besides, she's my best friend, and best friends share that kind of stuff with each other, right?" 

Quinn presses her lips into a thin line. She barely looks like she's breathing, but then again, Santana's pretty sure Quinn's a cyborg. "And what are _we_ , Santana?" she asks, quietly. 

Santana wants to poke at the wrinkle in between Quinn's eyebrows; she can't ever remember that being there. "What do you mean?" 

"You know what I mean," Quinn says, and this is really starting to turn into the most recycled conversation ever, because no, Santana has no idea what Quinn means; that's why she fucking asked. "We used to be kind of close, right? Granted, not as close as you and Brittany were, but I've always considered you my best friend," Quinn shares with her, and Santana just stares for a little bit, waiting for the point. "Except now you're shacking up with Rachel and Kurt, and here I am again, left on the outskirts."

"Oh my God," Santana deadpans, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling, "Could you be any more dramatic? You're not on the outskirts, Q. You're in fucking Connecticut." 

She stares at Quinn some more, until Quinn looks away with a red face, eyes averted to the chipped wall beside her. Santana sighs, because why do girls insist on making everything so personal and complicated? Quinn's the one who told her that their night together after the wedding reception meant nothing, so why all the weird questions? 

"You're there. Rachel and Kurt are here. Of course I'm gonna be closer with the people I live with," Santana explains softly, even though she kind of feels like shouting it. "Doesn't mean I care for you any less, Q."

"I don't know if it's just me, but after—our night together, the two of us just talked and video-chatted and texted all of the time, and—I liked it.” Quinn smiles at the memory, as if they're talking about years ago and not just a couple of weeks back. “I think we really connected, but as time went by, we sort of lost that spark."

Santana licks at her dry lips and feels weird as she shifts in her chair. "I hate to break it to you, Q, but there was no spark. Never was. What you felt was exhilaration. You felt like a badass for going against your parents, WASP, and pretty much all of society," she says, kind of hoping to squash whatever it is Quinn's trying to get at here, because it's always a game with Quinn; once she gets what she wants with Santana, she'll be back in New Haven, not even thinking about what she did for one night out of many. Sighing, Santana flicks a giant crumb across the table. "I get that feeling every time I sleep with a woman, so join the club."

Quinn looks at her for a long time, and that wrinkle between her eyebrows comes back. This time Santana does try to reach for it, but Quinn swats her hand away. "Why are you being such a bitch, S?"

Santana shrugs. "You started it." 

Quinn sighs and then smirks. "True," she says, because the bitch is nuts and never seems to know what she wants. They smile at each other for a moment, because this feels like the end of something. Santana doesn't know what, but she supposes it has something to do with their sudden lack of attraction to each other. Quinn levels Santana with a steady look. "You never back down from a fight, do you?"

"Of course not. Where's the fun in that?"

—

For an extended weekend, Kurt goes to Chicago to meet Henry's parents—which sounds like a splendid idea, because all of their needless bickering was starting to make Santana feel like she was five years old again, listening to her parents fight over everything from money to what was for dinner—so while the dads are away, the kids shall play. 

She and Rachel have no lives and nothing better to do on a Saturday night, so they get out the good bottle of whiskey—the one Kurt was saving for a special occasion, but oh well—and then they get really drunk in front of Santana’s laptop, watching Netflix. But not the trashed, sloppy kind of drunk; they're elegantly tipsy, as Rachel and probably a million alcoholics like to call it. 

There was nothing on TV—and Santana refuses to watch March Madness until the finals because she just had to give up fifty bucks to Pat (and she's kind of fucking pissed about it) when Kentucky lost to dumb old Wichita State—so they're watching the third season of _Heroes_ , and the only right way to watch this show is with some hard liquor, because it literally makes no fucking sense anymore. 

Crazy enough, this was actually Rachel's idea. Santana had been set and ready to go out clubbing with Cole, but Rachel somehow convinced her that Netflix and whiskey is a better way to spend the night, and fuck, Rachel's never been more right. 

"I wonder what it'd be like to be gay for a day," Rachel says, out of absolutely fucking nowhere. "Not for the sex part of it, but...there's so much more to homosexuality than just sex. My dads still have to go through so much crap, day after day, only because of who they love. I can only imagine what you're feeling, Santana. I mean, I'm straight living in a straight world, and I'm still insecure."

That was a lot of words Rachel just said, so Santana focuses on the part she actually heard. "You'd be gay for a day?" she repeats skeptically. 

Nodding, Rachel picks at the label of the bottle in her hand before taking a small sip, and Santana laughs at the disgusted look on Rachel's face as she sputters at the pungent taste. She makes that face every single time, and it's hilarious, like she's expecting it to taste better or something, which no. It still tastes like whiskey. 

Gross whiskey. 

They're in Rachel's room, like always, because Santana never cleans hers, and it kind of smells like armpit sometimes. She leans back against one of Rachel's pillows and looks up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "That's kinda sweet...and extremely weird at the same time. I can't say I've ever met a straight person who would wish to be gay until, well..." Santana trails off, casually gesturing to Rachel, " _now_ , but you've never been quite normal, so..."

Amused, Rachel rolls her eyes. "Shut up."

"It's just—usually it's the gay person wishing they were straight. Been there, done that. There's—" Santana cuts herself off, and then lifts her shoulders in a quick shrug. "I don't know. There's just something cool about it being the other way around for once. It's kind of like, step into my shoes. Feel how I feel."

"I feel kind of sick right now," Rachel mutters, and then takes another sip, as if that'll help or something. 

Santana plucks the bottle out of Rachel's hand and then takes a long pull. It stings all the way down and possibly burns a hole in her esophagus. She winces and then wishes something that actually tasted good could get her drunk instead of this molten lava shit she's been chugging. 

They're quiet for a moment, attention on Santana's laptop as the blonde cheerleader gets herself into more stupid shit no one understands. "I don't give a fuck what's going on with this show," Santana slurs, shaking her head. "Hayden Panty-Tears can save me whenever she likes."

"Um. I'm pretty certain it's the other way around,” Rachel informs her. “They're supposed to save _her_ in order to save the world."

"Wasn't that only the first season?"

"It's a reoccurring theme."

"Whatever.” Santana tilts her head back and takes another pull from the sloshing bottle in her hand. Her head bangs against the headboard, but it doesn't hurt enough to complain about. “I’ll have to add her to the list of women I'd bang, right along with Halle Berry and Rachel McAdams."

Narrowing her eyes, Rachel quirks her lips into a weird smile. "Santana, do I have to take that bottle away from you?"

"You're just mad because you didn't make the list," Santana teases, probably a little tipsier than tipsy now. “Though, when it comes to my other list, you can be number one."

Rachel chortles. "There's another list."

"Of course. My hot list. When it comes to banging, attraction is key."

"Wait,” Rachel chews on the inside of her mouth, and then, “You're attracted to me?"

"Oh, c'mon, Rachel," Santana stretches her arm across her chest with a sigh. "Don't try to play it off like you never knew."

Rachel shakes her head. "I never knew."

What? “What?"

"I never knew. You never told me, so I never knew."

"And you never wondered," Santana mumbles, suddenly feeling very caught off guard, "or even considered..."

"When I kissed you..." Rachel squints thoughtfully, and Santana just stares, waiting for her to have some sort of revelation. "You never said—you're attracted to me?"

Santana's sure she resembles a deer in headlights. Wrapping her lips around the bottle of whiskey, she takes a quick sip and then swallows roughly with a choked sigh. "I, um—sure."

"Sure?"

"You're— _Rachel_ ," Santana explains, waving a hand at Rachel's lower half, and then winces, because what the fuck does that even imply? "Rach, of course I'm attracted to you. You're..."

Rachel crinkles her nose. "I swear, if you say Rachel again—"

"I wasn't going to," Santana laughs weakly, awkwardly. "I was gonna say you're, um...your cookies are orgasmic, and you always know exactly what I'm about to say before I even say it, and we're total opposites, yet somehow the two of us just click, like Lego pieces or something, and even when I'm she-hulk angry, you're the only one who can calm me down without sounding condescending. Of course I'm attracted to you, Rachel. It'd be kind of ridiculous for me not to be."

Rachel just looks at her for a long moment, and then grins. "Nice save."

"I know, right?" Santana smirks through another pull. Damn. She really needed that one. 

"Okay. It's your turn now. Fess up."

So, they're taking turns now? Since when did confessional turn into a game? Whatever. Could be worse. She could be holding Cole's messy blue hair out of the way as she vomits into a dirty toilet bowl, so there could definitely be worse things happening right now. 

Humming, Santana thinks it over for a moment. "You know how I always used to brag about my dad being a successful brain surgeon back in high school?" Rachel nods, so Santana glances down at her lap and then folds her legs into a pretzel to get more comfortable. "Well, he's not my dad. My _real_ dad, I mean. I haven't seen him since I was like, five.”

Rachel's looking at her with these big, doe eyes filled with instant emotion, but Santana just shrugs, because it's not like she's about to cry over this or something. It was years ago, and she barely even remembers the guy. 

“Anyway, whatever; he was kind of messed up,” she mumbles, picking at a loose strand of fabric on Rachel's comforter. “After he left us, my mom got remarried about three years later to my stepfather, and then he adopted me when I was eight. The end.”

Rachel's gazing at her attentively, eyes wide as if this is one of the most important thing she's ever heard. Santana appreciates the supportive, of course, but it's uncomfortable sometimes; the constant hovering her friends do whenever she's going through a tough time. (But they do care. At least she has people who care.) 

"He might be absent seventy-five percent of the time because of work, but he cares about me one hundred percent, and that's all that matters to me." Santana pauses to pick at her fingernails, hoping that didn’t come out sounding too defensive, and then looks up to say, "I never told anyone that before. Besides Britt, I mean. But I guess that doesn't really count since she was there for the whole thing."

Rachel blinks up at her with these eyes that kind of make Santana want to hide underneath the covers. "Thank you," she says eventually, but she doesn't try to like, hold Santana's hand or anything gay like that, so it's cool. 

Santana focuses her eyes elsewhere and then takes a pull from the half-empty bottle, swallowing with a wince at the taste. She doesn't understand why they always buy this cheap-ass whiskey, but it sure gets the job done. She shrugs. “I didn't do anything but tell the truth."

"Which couldn't have been easy. I still can't talk about Shelby without breaking out into hives, so," Rachel trails off, pressing her lips together for a moment, "I kind of admire you for that, Santana. Your strength is something to be commemorated."

“Um. Yeah," is all she says, because how else is she supposed to respond to that? "My dad was the first person I came out to after that whole campaign ad was released, you know?” 

(She sighs at the reminder of that damn commercial. It played on every local station for over a month in every Lima household with a television. No one can even imagine the mortification and embarrassment she felt during that time of her life.)

"Was he mad?" Rachel asks, cautiously. 

A wry smile curves at the corner of her lips. "No, he was actually relieved." Santana laughs when Rachel gives her a dubious look. "Knew all along apparently," she explains, and then, "I guess he was just hoping I'd tell him before leaving for college. He even gave me tips on how to pick up girls.” Santana’s cheeks burn, and she rolls her eyes at the memory of that. Her dad can be such a bitch when he wants to. “Most mortifying conversation of my life. Even worse than the birds and the bees."

Rachel laughs softly as she glances down at the bottle in Santana’s hand. "Do they work?" she asks, and when Santana raises a brow, Rachel elaborates. “Your dad's tips. Do they actually work?"

"Do they work.” She waves Rachel off with a goofy grin. “I wouldn't have such a warm bed if his tips didn't work. I just wish I came out earlier, say freshman year or so. That way I would have definitely had more girls than Puckerman."

Rachel waits a beat and then grins knowingly. "But you didn't want any of those other girls, did you?"

"Who says?" Santana quirks an eyebrow at the puzzled look on Rachel's face. 

Rachel looks at her uncertainly. "Brittany...?"

Snorting, Santana squints her eyes in disbelief and says, "It may come as a surprise to you, but Britt wasn't the only girl I was hot for in high school." 

"Lemme guess; she was on the Cheerios." 

"She wasn't on the Cheerio." Santana rolls her eyes at the predictability of that assumption. Don’t get her wrong; there were a lot of lovely looking ladies on her cheer team, but nothing behind their pretty smiles ever really interested her. " _Actually_ ," big, suspenseful pause, "she was in glee club." 

"It was Tina, wasn't it?"

Santana scrunches up her nose. "No, Rachel, it wasn't Cohen-Chang. I think we had like, a total of two conversations in high school." 

Rachel screws up her face into a look of deep thought. "Mercedes?" she guesses next.

"Nope." 

"My next guess would be Quinn, but as you said before, she wasn't on the Cheerios, so that only leaves," she trails off, squinting her eyes dubiously, "...me?"

Ode to liquid courage. "Bingo."

Santana laughs at the comical expression on Rachel's face. With her eyebrows knitted, Rachel glances up at the ceiling and says, "All this time you've had a crush on me and you didn't say anything?" 

"Whoa, who said anything about a crush? I was _hot_ for you," Santana's quick to rectify.

"You wanted me? Even back then?" Rachel continues to repeat, and Santana sighs, because it sounds like she's listening to a broken record. 

"Pequiño. You were really bossy back then, and that kind of turned me on." A huge smile breaks across Rachel's face, and then she starts cracking up at the idea. A burning blush makes it's way up Santana's neck, and she hopes Rachel is drunk enough to not notice. "Alright, I think it's time for a subject change," Santana huffs, pushing Rachel away by the shoulder when she starts leaning into her a little too close for comfort. "Enough about me. Have you ever had the hots for another girl?" 

Rachel sobers very quickly at that. "Is this a trick question?" she asks, lowering her voice for probably the first time this evening. 

"How could that possibly be a trick question?" Rachel shrugs, so with a roll of her eyes, Santana says, "It's simply yes or no, but if you say yes, I'm gonna need some elaborate details." And she's only half-kidding about that.

"By hots, do you mean sexually attracted, or emotionally invested?" Rachel asks, always having to make the simple things out to be more complicated than it needs to be.  

"Sex, duh. I'm emotionally invested in Netflix, yet no one gives a shit." 

"Okay then." She slides down in the bed and hugs a pillow to her chest with a bashful smile. " _Fine_. Yes." 

"Go on..." Santana prompts, rotating her wrist in a gesture for Rachel to continue. 

"About what?" 

"You know..." Santana grabs the pillow out of Rachel's hands when she starts hiding behind it, "who was she?"

Rachel giggles and then slumps sideways against Santana. "I'm not telling," she singsongs, wiggling her eyebrows. 

Santana sighs, because Rachel literally sucks at girl talk. "Well, did you hit that? And if so, was it any good?"

"No, Santana, I did not hit anything with another woman," Rachel sputters, as if having sex is the most preposterous thing to do with a girl you have feelings for, which, like; isn't that the next step? "We simply remained friends because of the mere fact I never told her and she never found out."

Santana balks unattractively, but fuck that; she's always attractive. "You kept your feelings for this girl on the down-low? For how long?" 

"Long enough," Rachel slurs. 

"Do you still like her?" 

Rachel thinks about this for a long time, lips pursed tersely. "I don't know," she says, and Santana nods, trying desperately not to change her facial expression. Rachel having feelings for another girl; well, that's something Santana never expected of her friend, but hey, that’s fluidity for you. "I've moved on with my life, and so has she. People change, and I honestly feel like I've outgrown her."

Sucks for whoever that girl was. Rachel’s a catch. “Do you regret it though?" 

"Regret what?" 

Rolling her eyes, Santana levels Rachel with a look and tries to get her to concentrate. "Never telling her how you felt; do you regret it?"

The episode of _Heroes_ is still playing soundlessly on Santana's laptop, but neither of them have been watching it for a long time now. Rachel's eyes are on the screen, though it's obvious she's staring right past it. "I'll regret it every day for the rest of my life. But I think I made the right choice in ignoring my feelings," she murmurs, and then suddenly clears her throat. "Some things just aren't meant to be, you know?"

Santana just stares at her and shakes her head. "I don't agree." Rachel raises her head, eyes immediately locking with Santana's questingly, so Santana explains, "Some things _are_ meant to be. You can't just let life decide for you. It's your job to go after what you want."

Rachel presses her lips together, and then, "You don't believe in fate?"

"Not really. If I want something, I'm gonna go after it."

"And what is it that you want?"

Santana really thinks about that. Everyone around her always seems to know where they're going, or where they want to go. Everyone even seems to know who they want, while Santana's literally tried out every shape, size, and color but hasn't yet found anyone who's lived up to Brittany Pierce. 

But Rachel's still looking at her, and there's no way she's going to say _I want Britt_ like she’s a little brat chanting for ice cream before dinner. 

She misses Britt everyday, but the tightness in her chest has loosened. The dull thumping of her heart is beating with renewed vigor, but really, that could mean anything, so for now, Santana can only shrug a shoulder and say, "I don't know."

Rachel smiles tightly. "Well, we can figure it out together," she reassures, and somehow that's everything Santana needed to hear without even knowing it. 


	2. my face blew up at such a casual sight

Kurt arrives back from Chicago as if he just attended an unexpected funeral.

Just when Rachel’s finished cooking dinner—something nasty, probably, but Santana thought it’d be funny to see her try again—Kurt walks through their huge metal door with blotchy skin and red-rimmed eyes.

Everything seems to stop, and Santana doesn’t know what to do, so she just stares blankly.

Rachel snaps out of it first and throws off her oven mitts as she rushes out of the kitchen and toward Kurt with questioning eyes and a doting frown. All the while, Santana’s still standing frozen by the stove, wringing her fingers together, because seriously; she sucks at comforting people, and tears aren’t really her thing unless they’re Rachel’s tears.

She’s had more than enough practice with calming Berry down, but Kurt? She hasn’t seen that boy look this distraught over something since the beginning of junior year when Karofsky threatened his life.

This wasn’t the plan. After their flight, Kurt and Henry were supposed to come over for dinner and tell them all about the trip so Santana could tease them over their domesticity and ask when the wedding is, but Kurt’s here alone, on the brink of crying, and when Rachel asks him of Henry's whereabouts, Kurt’s entire face crumbles into this mushy baby face, and Santana's mind instantly jumps to the absolute worst conclusion.

She can feel her panic rising as she watches Rachel bring Kurt into a tight hug, cradling his head against her shoulder. They rock back and forth, Kurt sobbing into Rachel’s neck, his hands gripping the back of her sweater so tightly they turn even paler than normal.

Santana feels bile rise in her throat, and excuses herself to the bathroom.

Emotions make her nauseous.

—

She hesitantly comes out of the bathroom five minutes later to a still blubbering Kurt, who’s sitting on the couch, hunched over as Rachel tries to calm him down with hushed whispers.

Rachel’s dark, glossy eyes find Santana, and Santana knows what that look means. _Help_ , basically, so Santana sucks it up and sits down on the other side of Kurt and then awkwardly pats his back as Rachel continually feeds him tissue after tissue.

Turns out, Henry's not dead—yeah, that’s where her mind went—but he might as well be for breaking Kurt's heart.

So, apparently they're over. Like, _I’m sending someone over to pick up all of my shit_ over, and Santana kind of feels like crying too, because seriously? Henry and Kurt are like, endgame. They were supposed to be, at least.

Henry wasn't her boyfriend or anything, obviously, but the relationship they had was literally the only thing Santana had as aspiration to get back out there into the dating game. Which is a scary ass place, if she’s being perfectly honest.

And Henry...

Damn, things are going to be so awkward now. Every time she's going to want to talk to him or go over his place, she'll have to blatantly lie about it to Kurt. And then she'll be that middle person who can't mention either person in front of the other. She'll also have to be the peacekeeper, and the referee, and the messenger, basically, all until this blows over, or Kurt and Henry become just friends, or whatever.

Rachel keeps asking questions—which is really no surprise at all—so when she questions Kurt over who did the breaking up, Kurt just shakes his head and says, "It was a mutual decision. Things just weren't working out, what with our conflicting schedules, and our conflicting wants, and our fucking conflicting _everything_."

Rachel flinches at the anger in his voice, and she shoots Santana a concerned look. Santana only shrugs, but yeah, she's totally going to go ahead and call bullshit on that one. It was definitely Henry who did the breaking up, and Santana can't exactly say she's surprised.

Of course Kurt shouldn't put his education and career on the back-burner for his boyfriend, but it's called compromise; there are usually always ways to make things work, and while Henry was doing all he could to clear his schedule and make time, Kurt wouldn't fucking budge, so Henry had to make the hard decision.

Santana can't exactly say she blames him. Poor Kurt, but you know; poor Henry too.

—

Cobblestones is shit, so she gets a new job. Thanks to Angela, Santana scores a gig as a bartender at _Silk_ —this lesbian dance club down on 139th Street, a tasteful joint with an odd mixture of grunge and fluff—so that's where she is during the nights and early mornings now.

The feeling of telling her stupid boss that she quits is simply indescribable. She slams her apron down on the counter and struts all the way out of the shop. Sure, she may not be granted free privileges to coffee for herself and Rachel anymore, but now she can get free, unlimited alcoholic drinks, which—fuck, yeah—is a definite step up.

The only way she could have gotten this job is through Angela, really, what with her being a mob boss’ daughter and all. It's definitely a sketchy setup, not only because Santana’s two years underaged, but because she always has to come to work through the back door. She’d question it more, but the owner of the bar is mostly MIA, and it's a paycheck, so that's all Santana's concerned about at the moment.

The only problem is, she has no idea what she’s doing. The only drinks Santana’s ever mixed were at those lame ass Lima parties down in Puckerman’s basement, which was pretty much just grape juice, vodka, and some other questionable add-ons. The mixes tasted like shit, but it got her drunk fast, so that was really all that mattered back then.

But here? Here in New York, people like flavor and substance and an actual recipe, so Santana has to learn how to mix drinks. Like, she has to come in early, before any of the customers show up, and take a workshop from her co-worker Mary-or-Macy-or-something (she can’t remember names to save her life) on how to mix every type of drink they have on the menu, and it’s hard as shit.

She fucks up a few times and thinks about quitting, because her memorization sucks when it comes to recipes—this is why Rachel’s the one who bakes stuff—but after a while she gets a few down, and Mary-or-Macy-or-something tells her she’ll slowly get better over time. Hopefully.

—

She meets Todd—her co-worker and fellow bartender—on her third shift. At first, Santana doesn't think she's going to like the dude. He has this smug look about him, like he can bag every chick in here, despite it being a lesbian bar, but once she actually gets to know him, Santana begrudgingly realizes he’s not so bad.

As far as appearances go, Santana supposes he could be considered semi-attractive, especially paired with those light eyes of his; the brightest eyes she's ever seen, and it's almost scary, like he can see right into her soul, so she adopts the nickname Sweeney for him, like the musical _Sweeney Todd_. (She'll blame Rachel for that one.)

Sweeney's also tall and not too bright, but he has this sarcastic humor about him, he hardly ever takes himself seriously unless it's about friends and family, and what's even better, he doesn't try to hit on the women in here.

Most would think a guy like him only wants a job at a lesbian dance club in order to turn them (or something equally offensive), but Todd keeps his distance, and the only time he even refers to how hot some of the ladies are is when he and Santana rate them from behind the bar.

"Tiny brunette over by table five drinking a Long Manhattan,” Santana says, wiping down the counter with a dingy rag. “She's either an eight or nine.” She looks over to Todd with a smirk but then frowns at the scowl he's currently aiming in her direction. "What?" she asks stupidly.

"That's my sister, Lopez," he informs her, and _oh_. Santana didn't even know he had a sister, and for a moment, she looks back over at the woman, completely dumbfounded, because how can a girl so fine be kin to this giant caveman?

"Oops?” she murmurs, fighting a grin.

"Yeah, oops." A smirk slips past Todd's sour expression, but he still looks disgruntled at the thought of anybody checking out his sister.

Against better judgement, Santana allows her eyes to travel back over to the table Todd's sister is sitting at with a few of her friends. "Your sister's hot," Santana tells him, and then whips Todd in the ass with her rag when he makes a disgusted face, tongue sticking out. "What's her name?"

Scowling, he lines up a row of shots. "I fail to see how that's any of your business."

"If I make it my business, I'm sure I'll find out sooner or later," she counters, poking him in the chest, right where the words ‘Got Silk?’ are outlined on his glittery, pink tank-top, and Santana would so make fun of it if she weren’t wearing the same damn shirt.

"I don't even see why it matters," Todd slides down a vodka tonic and then wipes his clammy hands off on his apron. "Jenn would never go for someone like you anyways, so you should just forget it."

"First off, I'm surprised, Sweeney. That was kinda harsh," Santana pokes out her lower lip, feigning hurt, and then, "Secondly, thanks for telling me her name. Jenn, is it?"

The pleased smirk on Todd's face immediately drops, and he face-palms himself in frustration. Todd's a nice guy and all, but what a fucking idiot. Santana wouldn't trust the dude with her dead goldfish.

Jenn sees them looking her way and does a double take away from her friends. Her smirk remains as she whispers something to one of them and then approaches the bar with an empty glass. Santana eyes her up and tries to think of something to say so she's not just staring at the other woman's tits, but then Jenn walks right past Santana and over to her brother.

Well, if that didn't kill her pride…

Santana averts her eyes, stacking a few glasses as she pretends not to eavesdrop on whatever it is Jenn and Todd are talking about. She takes a customer but keeps her eyes on Jenn until the woman walks away from the counter and back over to her friends, who're giggling and whispering all conspicuously to each other with these knowing smirks, and fuck, Santana can’t help but wonder if they’re talking about her.

Todd punches her in the shoulder, successfully popping her dream bubble. "Don't you even think about it,” he says, following her line of vision with a sneer.

Santana smirks, not in the least unsettled. “You don't know what I'm thinking.”

"You're right, and I really don't wanna know," Todd says, before hopping over the bar. He spreads his arms out like an eagle, his light eyes intense as he looks straight at Santana, like he really wants her to hear what he's about to say. "Look at this place. Hot gay ladies _galore_. Any one of them would sleep with you in a heartbeat, so stay away from my twin sister or else."

It sounds like he's joking, but something about the way he says it lets Santana know that he's really not. But wait. She arches a brow. "Twin?"

"Got a problem?"

"No, no," Santana says, raising her hands in surrender, “Other than the fact you two look nothing alike."

"We're fraternal," Todd explains, rolling his eyes, like he's the one dealing with an incompetent, “And no offense, but you're not really her type."

Santana tilts her head, amused, because she’s _everyone’s_ type. "Is she gay?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'm her type, and she's mine."

"What I meant is that,” Todd grips the scalp of his hair, clearly frustrated, "She's not into the whole foul-mouthed badass thing."

Wiping down the counter, Santana peers across the bar and tries not to make her leering too obvious. "Then I'll be whatever she's into. Just name it."

Todd's quiet for a moment, stroking the stubble on his cheek in thought. "Punk rocker chicks with short pink hair and freaky piercings," he says, and it's so easily a lie that Santana just laughs and plays along.

—

Her new work schedule is hell on her beauty sleep. Now that she works all night, she has to sleep all day, and she hardly ever sees Rachel anymore—which, five months ago, would have been absolutely fine; actually it would have been a blessing in disguise—but now, it feels like something inside her goes missing without her daily dose of Berry. That girl gives her energy or something, like a vitamin or cup of coffee should do.

When Santana worked at Cobblestones, they had a routine. She'd brush her teeth and wash her face while Rachel was in the shower, and vice versa. They'd head out together, stop by this pastry shop, split a bagel, and then drink free coffee at Cobblestones.

After about ten minutes or so of Rachel reading the paper and yapping about her auditions, she'd leave Santana for her classes. Hours later, she'd come back a little before the end of Santana's shift, and then they'd walk home together and pass out in front of the television.

But now, everything is all fucked up. In order to spend just an hour together, Santana comes home from work, smelling like a brewery, at like, four in the morning, lies down beside Rachel, and they talk for a little, mostly mumbled words and noises, because Santana’s exhausted and Rachel’s half conscious, and then they both fall asleep until the early morning.

It's a shitty way to spend time with your best friend, but Santana finally has a good paying job that she actually likes, and Rachel's no longer late to any of her classes, so maybe everything did work out for the best.

—

Something about being told _not_ to pursue Jenn just makes Santana want her all the more. She’s almost always here on Santana's shifts, hanging out with her friends, laughing and smiling and dancing, and whenever Rachel’s not around to distract her, Santana finds herself salivating at the mystery girl’s pretty smile, and silky dark hair, and oddly alluring dance moves. And her _eyes_ —not blue in the least—are so magnetic, especially when they catch Santana's from all the way across the club.

There's something about this girl, and despite Todd's warnings to stay away, Santana just has to find out what it is that's pulling her towards this one girl in particular.

She considers asking Henry about it, because he always has awesome advice when it comes to this sort of stuff, but he's still a little torn up over the breakup, and any mention of dating sets him off into a crying fit, so Santana decides to go to Rachel for help, against all of her better judgement.

Sometimes, her roommate can be a little too intense about things, and might try to turn Santana's confusion over her feelings into a full blown love affair when it's not even anything like that. But out of everyone, Santana trusts Rachel the most, so really, what does she have to lose?

She catches Rachel after dinner. She's behind her curtain, writing something in this floral notebook she always seems to be nose-deep in. But when Santana enters, Rachel immediately tucks it under her pillow and tries for a casual, “Yo, what's up?"

Rachel shouldn't say shit like that, but it makes Santana laugh nonetheless, which kind of helps with the uneasiness building in the pit of her stomach. "There's this girl," is all she says, because how else is she supposed to explain this fucked-up-ness?

Surprisingly, Rachel only rolls her eyes. "There's always a girl with you."

She almost sounds relieved, like this isn't as big a deal as she thought it'd be. "I haven't slept with her," Santana elaborates, "I haven't even talked to her yet."

And _that_ gets Rachel's attention. She sighs through her nose, sitting up straight against the headboard. "Okay," she says, waiting for more.

But, honest to God, Santana doesn't really know what to say, or if she should even say _anything_ anymore. The last time she talked about liking a girl, it was about the Quinn thing and how she's not yet over Britt. Santana will never forget how Rachel went totally apeshit over that.

"You know what, never mind," she murmurs, already backing out of Rachel's room. "It's stupid. I shouldn't have even brought this up."

"No, Santana, don't." Rachel jumps out of her bed, like a fucking ninja, and then grabs Santana's hand to keep her from leaving. "Just—please continue," she pleads softly, pulling Santana back over until they're both sitting on the edge of Rachel's bed. "I'm sure whatever you're about to say won't be vapid in the slightest."

Santana sighs, giving it a chance, and throughout her entire spiel, she counts the amount of times Rachel's facial expressions change; from sincere, to calculating, to perplexity, to this blank canvas, to befuddled, and then back to sincere all over again. But it's nice to have someone listen for a change, and Rachel listens with her entire body, eyes alert, body posture engaged, head nodding and then shaking and then still.

(Despite this, Santana recognizes the wounded look on Rachel's face; it’s the same expression she'd see in the mirror every morning of her junior year when Britt was dating Artie, and she absently wonders why it feels like she’s settled with her second choice when there’s not even a first choice in the picture anymore.)

Santana could've had a good conversation about this with Henry too, but nobody understands her like Rachel does, and even though she looks skeptical about the whole thing—mostly because Santana's never even spoken to Jenn before—she does seem kind of content. Not exactly thrilled, but nowhere near close to giving out any hilarious nicknames.

—

Rachel hasn't shown much interest in auditioning for any off-Broadway productions ever since the whole Ben and Amy audition; Kurt’s gone who-knows-where on his quest to mend his broken heart; Angela and Daniel are still MIA—which definitely pings on her _they’re so fucking_ radar—and Cole has been on mission _Lesbianage_ for the last two weeks.

(Apparently she has a straight girl crush on this anthropology major at Columbia, and she's currently in the process of wooing her. That's what the text said anyway.)

So, it's basically just been her and Rachel recently. Rachel comes to hang out, sometimes, mostly on Fridays and the weekends, bringing some of her hot friends from dance class, and Santana appreciates the business and the attention, of course, but she’s not stupid, and she definitely isn't blind.

She knows Rachel's there to keep a close eye on her; it’s been this way ever since a little after Christmas.

Most nights Rachel comes to _Silk_ , Santana can't even make a move without catching sight of Rachel not too far away. She can't flirt with an attractive woman without having Rachel pop out of nowhere, purposefully engaging herself into their conversation until the other woman finally takes a hint and leaves.

It’s kind of annoying, but mostly comforting, knowing her best friend is looking out for her, always, even when the bodyguard routine isn't really needed.

Santana doesn't say anything. She never does. She keeps her lips sealed, because truthfully, it's kind of flattering, having Rachel so protective of her, fighting for her attention and affection. It's cute, how Rachel always wants to be Santana's number one girl, and how she gets jealous over the women she flirts with.

But Rachel can be kind of possessive too. Yes, Santana's noticed; mostly in regard to Quinn and Cole, but she can also be that way with Angela, sometimes, even though Santana would never ever cross that bridge ever again.

But Santana doesn't bring it up, and neither does Rachel. Kurt does though, because he's a tool when he's drunk, and ever since the breakup, he's had nothing better to do than rag on people. The kid is like, incomplete without Clifford the Big Red Dog, and Santana can’t help but feel for him. This is Kurt’s second breakup in one fucking year. Santana only went through one breakup about six months ago and she’s still trying to get over it.

It's kind of insane how Rachel and Kurt are even here. It's close to eleven on a weeknight, and those two toddlers are usually in bed already but Kurt hasn't exactly been himself since coming back from Chicago, and Rachel has made it a habit to visit Santana at work whenever Jenn's not around.

It's really no secret. Girls flirt with her, but Rachel kind of works as a woman repellent.

Rachel meets Todd for the first time on one of the last weeks of March, and he's totally Rachel's type. Tall, bumbling, a little slow in the noggin, but she barely gives him a second glance after their introduction. Rachel leans over the counter and whispers her drink into Santana's ear, because she likes to play it up on lady’s night.

Santana doesn't care. Whatever gets her more attention, and it's pretty clear Rachel's already had a few, so it's no big deal. Santana plays a long, hands over Rachel's drink with a wink, and then Rachel surprises Santana with a lingering kiss on the cheek before walking away.

Curious, dark eyes follow Rachel all the way to a table near the deejay, where she claims a seat next to Angela and Gwen.

"You tap that?"

Santana raises a brow as her eyes focus in on Angela. "The blonde talking to Rachel?" she drawls with a lazy smirk. "Nope, but I was so, so very close."

"No, not her," Todd says, jutting his chin forward. "The brunette. Rachel, you say?" Santana laughs so hard she almost chokes on her saliva. Todd gives her an odd look. "What's so funny?"

Santana slings a dingy rag over her shoulder and looks at him blandly. "Did you just ask if I ever had sex with _Rachel_?"

"Yeah?"

"That's...that is..." An interesting visual; one not exactly unwanted either. Her eyes find Rachel chatting cheerfully with Angela, and Santana’s stomach churns oddly, suddenly ashamed of her thoughts. Rachel’s her friend, not a sex object. She’s not something to be ogled at. Not by anyone.

"It's what?” Todd slams a bottle of beer onto the counter with enthusiasm. “She is smoking hot.”

"Well, yeah," Santana agrees, shrugging lamely, because that’s kind of true. _Very_ true, "but she's Rachel—my best friend, my homegirl. We're totally not like that. Besides, Rachel's mostly straight.” She winces through her lie, because that’s not entirely true, but for now, it’s her best excuse.

"And if she wasn't?” Todd asks, and ugh; she hates what if questions.

This conversation is getting annoying, and Santana would rather just do her job than talk to this bumbling idiot about Rachel when she could be stealing glances at Jenn from across the club. "Sure, fine, you got me," she admits, ignoring the hot blush climbing up her neck, because there's no way Sweeney's going to let this go until she at least budges a little bit.

"Of course I've thought about it. I'd have to be dead not to consider what it'd be like to, you know,” she waves her hand dismissively, and then coughs into her fist at the visual, "go there with her, but..."

Todd raises both bushy eyebrows, waiting. "But what? You two seem pretty damn comfortable with each other. Just make it official already."

Santana chokes again on a snort; this has to be the most she's laughed in like, her entire life. Official? Like, “Make _what_ official? We are friends. That is all,” she tells him, with finality in her tone, because this is getting kind of tiring; people asking her over and over again whether she and Rachel are an item. No! They are most definitely not, and not only do those questions make her feel awkward, but Santana’s sure they make Rachel feel uncomfortable too, sometimes.

Unconvinced, Todd shakes his head and then asks, "Do you guys always kiss and hug like that when you part?"

Santana shrugs. "Yeah. But it's not like that."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

"I am _very_ sure," she says, not even trying to hide her eye roll, because this intense level of interrogation is so not cool, but then Todd cracks a smile, and Santana stares at him incredulously. He's got to be kidding her. Seriously?

Todd rubs his hands together shyly. "Then may I?"

She knows what he's getting at, but she asks anyway. "May you what, Sweeney?" He juts his chin toward Rachel, and Santana looks across the bar and watches her roommate laugh with a group of friends. "Knock yourself out, big guy," she tells him, only because she knows he doesn't have a chance in hell.

—

After a lot of nagging and badgering, Todd eventually introduces Santana to his sister, because it’s only fair, right? She allowed Todd to chat up Rachel—even though it was a total waste of time, considering Rachel hasn’t been into anyone lately, more focused on her dance classes and vocal lessons than anything—but apparently Jenn is still off limits to her, yet that doesn’t mean Santana won't try to flirt with her when Todd's not around.

Todd goes to night school on Wednesdays and Fridays, so Santana tampers with the schedule so that she and Todd are no longer working every shift together. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, and Jenn agrees, admitting to finding Todd's overprotectiveness suffocating at times. "He's so anal about my safety that he got a job here only so he could keep a close eye on me," she complains, though her cute smirk remains as she waits for Santana to finish mixing her drink.

"On the house," Santana tells her, and Jenn gives her this tiny smile before thanking her and then heading back over to her friends.

Santana's eyes land on Jenn's ass, but it's totally not her fault—Jenn's ass started it by being so round and taut.

—

Rachel gets tickets to a fashion show from Angela—like, who is this girl, the fucking Wizard of Oz, or some shit—because she thinks it’ll help in trying to cheer Kurt up, and there’s an extra ticket, so Santana tags along.

It’s a dressy event, which is right up Santana’s alley, and they all squeeze into the bathroom, putting on makeup (Rachel) and fake eyelashes (Santana) and shaving their legs (Kurt) to get ready.

This is some high-class shit they’re attending, so Santana wants to do it right. They won’t be on the red carpet or arriving in a limo, or anything fancy like that, but there will be models, and Santana’s second favorite word is models.

They arrive in a taxicab, which, not very glamorous, but at least they’re here, and Santana will finally have something to brag about on her Instagram that will top all the high-class shit Mercedes has been posting of Los Angeles lately.

They don’t have front row seats either, because the tickets were from Angela, not Michelle Obama, but the view of the runway is a lot better than any of them expected. Rachel’s all smiles, eyes big and round as she looks around and points at celebrities and claps excitedly when one of them looks her way.

They’re totally looking right past her, but Santana doesn’t have the heart to tell her that, so she only chuckles at Rachel’s enthusiasm and hopes Kurt will crack at least one smile before they leave here, or else this entire night will be one, big failure.

There’s an after party—but  _of course_ there’s an after party; this is a New York City fashion event—and somehow they get in with the help of Rachel’s insistent rambling. The bouncer must tire of her voice, because he eventually ushers the three of them in with a roll of his eyes, and Rachel’s proud smile is literally the cutest thing Santana has ever seen, but then her eyes land on Jenn, and—the fuck?

Her eyes are totally playing tricks on her, because this isn’t _Silk_ , and Santana’s not on shift, which is the only time she has ever seen Jenn, and it’s weird seeing her out of that environment—but it really is her, somehow, wearing this stunning purple dress that looks like it’s worth about a thousand dollars, and she’s chatting up a group of other people with expensive looking clothes on.

Kurt and Rachel follow her line of vision, and Rachel immediately recognizes Jenn, Santana can tell, because her eyes get all dark and her lips get all pursed, but Kurt pops up beside them with an excited squeal and goes, “Oh my heart, Jenn Malone, as I live and breathe.” He’s gushing like a total fangirl, and Santana would be embarrassed if she had any idea what Kurt was talking about.

He catches their looks and frowns. “I’m guessing it’s safe to say you’ve never heard of Jenn Malone…”

“Of course we’ve heard of her. She’s Santana’s recent crush,” Rachel tells him, but that’s inaccurate. Santana wouldn’t call Jenn a crush; she’s more of a conquest—a prize at the end of a game— than anything remotely feelings-related. Like, c’mon, she barely even knows the chick.

Kurt only laughs. “No, no, no, honey,” he says, rolling his eyes at their ignorance. “Jenn Malone is like, Serena van der Woodsen famous when it comes to Manhattan’s elite.”

She can’t believe Kurt just used a stupid character from a show to describe how fucking wealthy Jenn is, but then again, he’s been attached to their television for days now, so. Anyway, not the point. “Are you saying…” she trails off, eyes bouncing back and forth from Jenn to Kurt, and back again.

“She’s richer than a hot fudge chocolate soufflé?” Kurt supplies, smiling like a fucking goober now. “Yes, that’s _exactly_ what I’m saying.”  

Santana gapes.

She is so going to kick Sweeney’s ass on their next shift.

—

“So, you’re a rich girl,” she says, sliding Jenn’s drink across the counter.

Jenn smirks and trills, “Na-na na na, na-na, na na na-na, na na.”

Santana doesn’t want to laugh, but it happens anyway. “Cute.”

“Oh, I know I am,” Jenn says, lifting a brow as she brings the straw to her red lips.

Shaking her head, Santana wipes off her hands on a dry towel and then crosses her arms. “You know you’re not getting anymore free drinks now that I know you could probably handle every open tab in here.”

“So, what I’m hearing is,” Jenn purses her lips way too enticingly to be legal, “because I’m rich, I don’t deserve to be wooed?”

Santana smiles. This girl is going to be the death of her. “Well, that depends,” she murmurs, leaning over the bar counter with a lecherous grin. “Do you _want_ to be wooed?”

“What girl doesn’t?” Jenn shoots back, almost automatic, and nothing turns Santana on more than a woman with quick wit and saucy comebacks. Hot damn.

—

The only thing she’s put in her mouth today is coffee, and Santana’s stomach is cramping up from how empty and hollow it is, so she goes over Henry's place for food.

Since Henry’s been banned from their loft, she has to visit him now, and it’s kind of depressing. Like, he always tries to act strong at first, putting on a brave face and pretending to be indifferent to the fact he just broke up with the love of his life, but then about ten minutes pass and he breaks down, turning into a disgusting mess and crying over everything that reminds him of Kurt.

Santana feels bad for rolling her eyes at him—because she totally knows what he’s going through; she’s been there before—but, c’mon, he’s supposed to be the manly one and here he is sighing over the pictures he still has of Kurt in his phone.

It’s kind of pathetic. Really sad. And incredibly annoying. But Santana’s been doing this weird thing this year where she’s trying to be a better friend than she was back in high school.

She’ll admit it, but only because it’s true; she sucked at friendship unless Britt was involved, but now Santana’s trying to be there for her friends, so she rubs Henry’s knee comfortingly and then turns on the Bulls game, because it’s Henry’s favorite team, so why not?

It’s the end of the third quarter, and the Bulls are kicking the Lakers buttocks, even without Derrick Rose, when Santana gets a text from Rachel;  _what do you want for dinner? i’m contemplating the idea of making pesto soup with gnocchi, beans, and greens ;)_

Santana shoves a spoonful of pudding into her mouth with a roll of her eyes. _please don’t cook without supervision._

_then come home! it’s already past seven, and you know how much i hate eating dinner after nine. it’s bad for my digestion._

_can’t. eating at the enemy’s crib tonight._

Rachel sends back a sad face. One with a teardrop.

Sighing, Santana steps into the bathroom, phone in hand. Rachel picks up on the second ring. “Don’t cook,” Santana says in lieu of greeting. “Just come over here and eat with us.”

Rachel sighs, sounding tired and dejected. “It wouldn't be right to leave Kurt alone,” she says, even though it sounds like that’s exactly what she wants to do.

Damn, this is like an actual divorce. And it’s annoying as fuck. She’s never been more grateful to her mom and step-dad for dealing with their shit behind closed doors and always working it out, because although she can barely remember her parent’s divorce when she was five, she knows it wasn’t pretty.

Since Rachel can't stop by, Santana gets an odd idea. Without really thinking it over, she dials Jenn’s number and then invites her over, with Henry's permission first, of course. "As long as you don't do anything nasty in my bed,” he says with a wave of his hand, so Santana takes that as a yes and then shoots a text to Jenn with Henry’s address.

Jenn arrives soon after, and Santana wonders if she took a limo here for all of five seconds before a quick kiss is pressed to her cheek, and is this what dating feels like?

She barely knows anything about this girl, other than what she’s googled, so after ordering takeout—Chinese, because it’s Jenn’s favorite; she could live off shrimp lo mein, apparently—they get to know each other.

"Part-time student, full-time artist,” is how Jenn likes to describe herself, and after much poking and prodding from Santana, Jenn reluctantly shows her some pictures on her phone of her artwork, and they're fucking amazing. "I'm in school for pre-law, but only because my parents think art is a fun hobby, not a respectful occupation."

Santana rolls her eyes, ready to jump into a whole diatribe about how much her mother tries to control her life in that aspect, but then Henry comes into the kitchen to load up on snacks. He looks between them skeptically, and then smiles. "Is Rachel cool with this?"

Santana would punch him in the face if Jenn wasn't sitting right here, looking at them with a confused frown. "Who's Rachel?" Jenn drawls questioningly.

Henry plops down at the counter next to her. "Santana's ultimate and worthy protector."

Santana thumps him in the chest, and then focuses her eyes back on Jenn with a shy smile. “Rach is my best friend," she corrects.

Eyebrows raised, Jenn smirks through her next bite. "Ah-ha," she says, nodding slowly. "And why wouldn't she be cool with _this_?"

Santana grits her teeth when Henry snorts beside her. "Ignore him,” she tells Jenn. “Everyone but Rachel and I seem to have this twisted idea that we'd make a cute couple, but it's nothing like that between us."

Henry pouts. "Not even a little bit?"

"Fuck off," she laughs, pushing him away.

Jenn's light eyes follow him out of the room with an amused smile. "So, how about you?" Santana curls her lip in confusion, so Jenn adds, "Your interests; likes, dislikes?"

"Oh, I, um..." It probably shouldn't take her so long to answer the question, but this girl makes her nervous. “Well, I do some reading on my downtime; cooking relaxes me when I'm stressed. I..." She's running out of shit to say, so with a flirty smile, she bats her eyelashes at Jenn and drawls, "I also like cute girls—"

"Didn't see that one coming," is shouted out from the living room, but Santana just ignores him with a heated blush.

Amused, Jenn smiles, so Santana continues with, "I like writing too. Once the summer starts, that'll go from a hobby to a possible career choice."

Jenn looks intrigued. "You write."

"Meh," Santana mumbles, playing it off, because sure, she likes to write, but she doesn't even know if she's any good at it yet.

The only people who've read her drafts are Rachel and Henry. Santana always trusts Rachel's opinion, and Henry's practically a professional, but who knows if she's as good as they say, or they're just being nice, and she truthfully sucks.

"What do you do most?” Jenn asks, twirling her fork around. “Poetry; short stories?”

"Screenwriting,” Santana says, not in the least expecting that small piece of information to excite Jenn so much, but then she goes off on a spiel about her favorite movie classics, and Santana’s surprised to discover how much they actually have in common. “What other types of art are you interested in?” she asks, poking distractedly at her egg roll.

“All types,” Jenn says, but instead of bragging, it comes off more as teasing and confident.

Brows raised, Santana kneads for more. “Like?”

“Like painting, and sketching, and _sculpting_ ,” she says with this lilt in her voice and an odd twinkle in her eyes, and goddamn, the way she says _sculpting_ really makes Santana wish they weren’t still at Henry’s place.

—

The acoustics in the shower are beyond this world. She’s singing the _Friends_ ’ theme song, which was playing over and over again throughout half the night—Kurt’s been marathon-watching that show like a madman, because apparently, according to Rach, television helps him forget about his issues—and the damn song is stuck in her head, so she’s pretty much belting it out at this point when she hears the bathroom door open.

“Rach, thank God.” Santana pulls the curtain aside and then points over to the sink. “Can you pass me the shampoo?”

Scratching at her messy bed hair, Rachel yawns through a smile as she hands over the shampoo and then starts brushing her teeth. Santana hums under her breath as the warm water trickles down her bare back, eyes glued to Rachel for a moment, before retreating back into the shower. She squeezes a dab of soap into her hand and then scrubs all the lesbian nightclub grime out of her hair. Then out of nowhere, she starts singing _I’ll be there for you_ without even realizing it.

 _Fuck_.

“Please tell me I’m not the only one with this damn song stuck in my head.”

“At least it’s catchy,” Rachel mumbles around her toothbrush.

“Too catchy.”

“I don’t particularly mind it,” she says, and Santana can tell Rachel’s smiling just by the trill in her voice. “ _Friends_ has always reminded me of our life here in New York, actually.”

Santana smirks as she scrubs at her knotted hair. “Yeah? And which character am I?”

“You’re…Chandler.”

Santana whips her head to the side, dark wet hair slapping against her back. “The dude who makes sarcastic jokes all the time to compensate for his small weenie,” she says dryly, eyeing Rachel’s silhouette through the yellow curtain.

Rachel's silent for a moment. “Yes, him. I guess.”

“I am _nothing_ like that guy. He’s—”

“Implausibly intelligent, overwhelmingly sensitive, and just so sweet without even realizing it,” Rachel practically gushes, before adding, “Which admittedly, is the best kind of sweet.”

Santana pauses, scratching at her soapy hair. “You’ve thought about this before, haven’t you?”

“Hearing that song play over and over again in the middle of the night has graced me with very detailed dreams,” Rachel says, kind of defensively, which is really just unnecessary, because it’s not like Santana’s trying to get at anything here. “And in those dreams, my subconscious sometimes replaces the characters with people I know in real life.”

Closing her eyes, Santana ducks her head back underneath the shower head to rinse out the shampoo. “Right. So, who’re you?”

“Monica.”

Santana laughs and almost chokes on water. “You can’t be Monica. She can cook,” she says, running both hands through her slick, wet hair.

(It’ll start curling soon, into these tight little locks that’ll take forever to comb out and straighten. Sometimes she considers wearing it natural, but the humidity, even in the winter, causes it to go haywire when she least expects it.)

Rachel tuts, unamused, but Santana cuts her off, laughing, “Cole would be Phoebe, Daniel would be Joey,” she lists off, counting with her fingers, “Kurt would be Rachel, and Henry would be Ross.”

“Henry can’t be part of our imaginary _Friends_ ’ cast,” Rachel says, huffily. “We’re mad at him, remember?”

“You and Kurt are mad at him. I, on the other hand, have decided not to take sides,” Santana tells her, because she’s not _that_ childish. She didn’t do it in high school when Quinn and Puck were on the outs, and she’s not going to do it now. Hell no. “Henry’s reason for ending it with Lady Hummel was totally valid. He was like, never around.”

But now that they’re broken up, Kurt’s almost _always_ here. Funny how that works, huh?

“But Kurt went with him to meet his parents,” Rachel counters, like that means anything at all. Sure, he extended an olive branch, but too little too late, you know? “He was obviously trying to make up for it.”

Yeah, except that was a total fail—that’s what she heard from Henry, anyway. Apparently, Kurt and his iPhone were more intimate during their trip to Chicago than he’s ever been with Henry, all because of his new job working at Vogue, and Santana supposes Henry just got fed up.

Kurt took Henry for granted, and Henry was tired of being put second, third, and fourth to everything in Kurt’s life, so he ended it, and Santana doesn’t think he should be disparaged for growing a pair and getting out of a failing relationship before it completely blew up in his face.

(Maybe that’s what Britt did. Santana doesn’t like to think about that too much, but maybe Brittany was just tearing off the band-aid before it had time to stick too hard and peel off skin.)

Santana presses her palm to the cold tiled wall and then bows her head. “It’s hard to make up for mistakes made in the past.”

Actually, it seems hard for everyone except Rachel. She still forgives too easily. _Sorry_ or _I apologize_ is probably the two most used phrases in Rachel’s vocabulary, and to be honest, it pisses Santana off sometimes.

(No, that douche who spilled wine on you should not be forgiven. Fuck no, that girl who was in your way doesn’t deserve an apology, Rachel. Like, what the hell? That man who stepped on the back of your heel doesn’t get an _I’m sorry_ , Rach. You do.)

And Rachel has a backbone, she does, but only when she gets really worked up. It’s funny seeing that side of her sometimes; when she lets the fire burn in her eyes and then articulately tells someone off, and all Santana has to do is smirk and silently watch in enjoyment from behind.

“Santana,” Rachel says, her voice muffled behind the shower curtain. “I have something to tell you, and I hope you won’t be too irate with me for not informing you sooner.”

This sounds serious, so Santana pulls the curtain aside and watches Rachel tap her toothbrush against the sink to a steady beat; the _Friends_ ’ beat, Jesus Christ. “What is it, Rach?” she asks, when her friend remains silent.

“And before I go on, just know that it’s only for three weeks, and my rent will still be paid for this month in full despite my absence.”

Rachel turns around when Santana steps out of the shower—which, really, is just so unnecessary; they’ve seen each other naked about five to eight times already—and wraps a towel around her dripping wet body.

Okay, Rachel’s scaring her now, and her deflecting is seriously starting to get on Santana nerves. “Rach, what’re you—”

“I’m going to Philly.” Rachel faces the mirror, but her eyes remain downcast. “In ten days,” she adds.

Santana blinks a few times, eyebrows raised. Her brain doesn't compute the words for a second. “Wait. You're _what_?”

"I impulsively applied for an internship in Philadelphia for this prominent theatre program that I never expected to receive, but Miss July told me two days ago that I was accepted and, well..."

Rachel’s rambling, and Santana’s only catching about every other word of it. So, really, this is all she hears: “I applied an in for prominent program I expected receive Miss told two ago was and…”

There's no tangibility to any of this, and Santana tries to grasp at some sense of reality, but as she stares at herself in the mirror over Rachel’s shoulder, she finds nothing but a blank expression in her eyes. "You're going,” she concludes, stepping forward until Rachel raises her head and meets her eyes. “To Philly?”

Rachel lets out a long sigh, so there's Santana’s answer, practically, before Rachel even confirms. Rachel grips the edge of the sink, her nails digging into the underside of the water basin, and Santana comes even closer until she can rest her chin on Rachel’s shoulder.

"For how long?"

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Rachel takes forever to answer the damn question, which is annoying, because Santana _knows_ Rachel already knows. "Three weeks," she says, eventually, as if afraid of Santana's response.

Her chest feels like it's about to cave in, but she fights through the constricting of her ribcage, because this sounds like an awesome opportunity for Rachel, and so she presses her tongue to the back of her teeth and then smiles lamely. "That's a long fucking time to be gone, but…”

Santana rakes her teeth over her bottom lip, and then wraps her arms around Rachel, smiling for real now when Rachel rests back against her, sighing in relief.

“I’m happy for you, Rach," she says, and it’s hard to say, but everyone knows that Santana only says what she means, and she definitely means this.

Rachel's been feeling like crap lately, especially after all of the rejections she's faced in her auditions. This is something that can really turn things around for her, and although it's going to suck being in this apartment with just gloomy old Kurt, Santana will deal for Rachel's sake.

She's not that up her own butt that she can't be happy for her girl.


	3. silly little things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in honor of my birthday in ten days, here's a shiny new chapter. enjoy!

**9 days before Rachel leaves for Philly**

In a panic, Santana dials that familiar number, because it’s faster than scrolling halfway through her contacts, and she doesn't worry about interrupting any of Rachel's classes since she knows Rachel always has a break in between during this time of day.

"Have you ever been manipulated into a relationship?" she asks, as soon as Rachel picks up.

Instead of a snippy response like, _Why, hello to you too, Santana_ , Rachel answers with, “I don't believe so. Why do you ask?"

The words slip out of her mouth like jello. “I think I'm dating her."

There’s an uncomfortably long silence and then, “How— _what_?” Rachel stammers. “Who?"

Rachel knows good and well _who_. “Jenn.”

"Todd's sister?"

“You know any other Jenn’s?”

She feels bad as soon as the attitude slips out, but Rachel’s dealt with it before, and she does now too. “I thought he told you to stay away from her,” she says.

Santana rolls her eyes, because she could care less what Sweeney tells her to do. “He did, but when someone tells me not to do something, it only makes me want to do it more."

Rachel releases a long sigh into the speaker of the phone, and then asks, “What happened?"

"Well, we were in the bathroom messing around—"

“Wow, that's _extremely_ unsanitary."

Pursing her lips, Santana remains silent. She can just imagine the disgusted look on Rachel’s face, and strangely, she kind of misses that look sometimes, especially since they’re not hanging out as much as they used to. She misses a lot of things about Rachel, and she knows that list will only grow once the girl leaves for her internship in a week.

She’ll miss being bossed around, being told to take out the trash, and to clean up all of her shit from off the counter. She’ll miss the random advice Rachel gives her without even having to be asked first. She’ll miss the way Rachel scrunches up her nose when the sewage backs up and they can all smell it wafting up to their apartment.

She’ll miss—well, shit, she’ll miss a lot of stuff.

Anyway, “So, as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted: we were in the bathroom, and I was about to go in for the kill—mind you, this is like the third time we've made out,” she adds, flopping down on her bed with an arm folded underneath her head, “but then she stops me and says, 'I really like you, but if we're going to continue seeing each other, it can't be in this bathroom.'"

"Seeing each other?” Rachel drawls uncertainly. “You think she meant _dating_."

"Well, yeah.” Santana picks a piece of lint off her sweater and rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. She’s trying not to get frustrated, but it’s hard when she’s already heading in that direction. “What _else_ could that mean?"

"From a literal standpoint, it could just mean seeing, as in physically looking at each other,” Rachel says, laughing, because of course she finds this amusing, “or it could mean, as you said before, exclusively dating."

Whoa. _Exclusively_? “No, she never said anything about that."

"Santana, do you want an STI?" Rachel asks, and wow, that's a bit random. "Because if you don't stop sleeping around and just stick to one girl, you're going to probably end up with one soon."

This is not where she expected this conversation to venture when she originally called Rachel up. “I’m always safe,” Santana says, awkwardly tugging on her sleeves, because this still kind of feels like talking about sex with her mom sometimes.

"Safe, you say,” Rachel hums, skeptically. “Have you ever asked any of your partners about their past sexual history?"

"Who the fuck does that?"

"People who want to be safe."

Santana sighs, loud and annoyed, just so Rachel knows how much she’s not enjoying this. “Before I go down on a girl, I ask, 'you clean,’ she says, 'yeah, duh,' and that's pretty much it."

Rachel tsks under her breath, and Santana rolls her eyes so hard she’s surprised she doesn’t lose her sight by the strain of it alone. “That is not what I'd call safe at all, Santana,” she chastises, her voice all high-pitched and nasally. Damn, she’s getting worked-up. And a worked-up Berry is a scary Berry. “I don't mean to sound judgmental or bossy in anyway,” yet she probably will in about point five seconds, “but you might want to go for a screening, just in case."

"You think I have an STI?” Fuck, that's great. Her own best friend thinks she’s a dirty whore.

“Look, Santana, I don't think you're a whore,” Rachel says, practically reading her mind, and fuck, Santana hates it when Rachel pulls that shit. “I just think you're being naive when it comes to sleeping with strangers.”

That is probably the last thing she’s naive about. How would Rachel know anyway; she’s practically celibate nowadays. And Jenn’s not even a stranger. They’ve known each other for about three whole weeks now.

Neither their hands nor mouths are strangers anymore.

—

**8 days**

They've really only known each other for like, two and a half weeks now, but Santana has a feeling Jenn is purposefully pushing her away, because every time they're making out and Santana slides her hands down, Jenn pulls back with this shy smile and asks her if she wants to watch a movie.

Obviously Santana doesn't want to watch a movie. She wants to watch Jenn come undone beneath her, but Santana's never been one to push girls (or anyone for that matter) into situations their uncomfortable with.

She's not Puckerman for fuck's sake, so after a pause where they both catch their breaths and stare at each other oddly, Santana nods her head and they settle back against the couch, watching something totally dumb, like Miss Congeniality or Legally Blonde; white chick flicks, basically, and Santana never thought she'd see the day, but she kind of misses being forced to watch musicals with Rachel.

—

Todd thinks he’s funny, but Santana just thinks he has nothing better to do. It’s weird, knowing that he’s rich now. She doesn’t look at him differently, of course. He’s still Sweeney. He’s still not too bright. He's still sort of clumsy on his feet.

But Santana's impressed, because he’s also kind of a modern day Robin Hood with the way he gives people drinks on the house, and welcomes in bums, and throws away twenty bucks to the starving artists who hang out in the alleyways behind Silk.

He’s got a good head on his shoulders, and he’s like that weird cross between Sam and Puck. Like, if they had a lovechild, it would be Sweeney. Disturbing visual, but that’s what she sees, which just makes it that much harder for Santana to mess around with his sister behind his back.

She feels bad about it sometimes, especially when she recalls the way he clearly said, “ _Or else_."

That poorly overused phrase sometimes has her wondering what he meant by it. It was a threat, of course—like, duh—but she hadn’t taken it seriously. Now that she knows he has cash and resources, Santana might have reason to worry.

But she’s dated people she wasn’t supposed to before. It doesn’t do much to her conscious. And Jenn’s sneaking around too.

In a way, they’re in this together.

—

**7 days**

Santana's always used sex as a way to connect with people; women mostly, of course, because fuck if she ever enjoyed sex with men, or boys, really. It wasn't horrible, just wasn't her thing. Sex with guys was mostly about power and respect, but with women—women like Brittany and Quinn—sex was soft and slow, and there was always something so tender and gentle and erotic about it.

Sex with girls, even the women she barely knew, was about getting closer and temporary pleasure and connecting on a deeper level, but when Jenn tells Santana on their first real date that she's abstinent—that she always abstains for the first few months of a new relationship—Santana's kind of at a loss for words, because who the hell does that anymore, unless they're like, a nun or something?

Despite that, things really do make a whole lot of sense now; why Jenn always pushes her away right when their makeout session starts to get steamy, why Jenn tends to pull Santana's hands up to more appropriate places when they venture down too low, why Jenn would rather watch a movie on the couch instead of fuck in the bedroom.

Santana only thought Jenn wanted to take it slow, because let's face it, it's really only been less than three weeks since they've met, but _abstinence_? Honestly, that was the last thing on Santana's mind, and she's really not too sure what to think about it.

To Jenn, Santana is reassuring and all smiles, telling her that it's cool, that sex doesn't mean the heaven and the earth to her, but in her head, she's totally freaking out.

She feels horrible for not calling Jenn back the next day, but seriously, she needs time to think this through.

—

**6 days**

Kurt's been acting weird lately. It's like he got this second wind, and the couch is no longer his best friend anymore. He's out and about again as if the breakup never even happened, and Santana's not yet sure whether to be relieved or concerned.

Rachel readily chooses concern and asks him what's wrong when he gets home, but Kurt only smiles uncertainly and says, "It's a new day, it's a new dawn, it's a new life for me, and I'm feeling good."

"Okay, Sinatra. Without quoting lyrics this time, what the fuck is up with you?" Santana asks, watching him carefully as he putters around the kitchen in a jolly mood and fixes them all dinner. She ain't complaining on that front, because food is her life, but, "One minute you're sulking over lost loves, then the next you're fucking floating around like Mary Poppins. What in God's name happened in between?"

Rachel nods in agreement, eyes wide like saucers as she stands next to Santana and then straightens her posture. Twirling the spatula in his hand, Kurt looks between them and then grins with a chuckle. "Inspiration, my darlings," he singsongs, but that's bullshit, and they all know it. "Fine, I may have caught that delightful comedy with Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds on the tube this weekend, and it gave me an interesting idea."

Santana and Rachel look at each other. Rachel honestly looks beyond worried, her eyebrows knitted up to her hairline as she chews vigorously on her bottom lip, so Santana rubs at her lower back until the girl starts breathing regularly again.

"Okay," Rachel sighs, obviously not convinced in the slightest if the screwed up look on face has anything to say about it. "I can't say I understand any of this, but as long as you're feeling better, that's all that matters. Right, Santana?"

Rachel nudges Santana in the arm when she fails to respond, but no— _hell_ no—that's not all that matters. While Kurt is acting like nothing ever happened, Henry is still wallowing in self-pity, alone in his apartment, desperately missing Kurt and regretting his decision to break it off everyday. Hell if Santana's going to be happy about this shit when it's not fair.

Not in the slightest.

—

**5 days**

She's wiping down the counter at Silk with a yawn—because these hours are weird as fuck—when a familiar face pops up. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten hit by a bus,” Santana jokes, even though that’s not really something people should joke about, especially after that one Grey’s Anatomy episode. Anyway. It’s Cole standing in front of the bar, and, “Where the fuck have you been?”

Cole looks a mess—which honestly, isn't too out of the usual—but she's an attractive mess with the ability to pull anything off, even the whole I-just-woke-up-and-grabbed-anything-available look.

A lot of people mistake Cole for dull and relaxed, but Santana knows there's a lot more to that girl than meets the eye. She's kind of a genius when it comes to music, and when she gets talking about something she's passionate about, Jesus Christ, it's like listening to a never-ending spiel. But tonight, there's something lacking. There's a sparkle in her eye, but the fire has dimmed to a mere twinkle.

Cole quirks her lips to the side and then leans her elbows over the bar counter. “I sent you a text,” she says.

“That was two weeks ago.” Cole only shrugs, so Santana sighs and says, “How did the mission go?”

“Still straight.”

Santana gasps. “After only _two_ weeks?”

“Fuck off,” Cole says, and there’s not much behind it, but it still throws Santana for a loop.

“Shit, you’re really fucked up over this,” she muses, sliding a bottle of beer across the counter before wiping up the wet trail left behind. “I thought you were more about the free-living and not giving a shit lifestyle.”

“I was. Still am, I guess.” Cole shrugs again, dragging her finger around in the residual puddle before taking a sip of her beer. “But perspectives change when you—”

Santana groans wearily and then runs a hand through her hair. “Please don’t say fall in love.”

“Fall in love,” Cole says, smiling a little, but not really.

Santana only stares. "Am I in a fucking Lifetime movie?"

“Lifetime movies aren’t so bad,” Cole says with an oddly blissful sigh. She is totally out of it, smiling down at the counter to herself, or whoever it is she's constantly thinking about, and Santana watches her for a moment before darting her eyes up to the ceiling in annoyance.

She's had enough weird for one week, and it's only fucking Wednesday. First, Jenn tells her they can't have sex, then Kurt is super happy out of fucking nowhere, and now this shit? She needs some normal after everything that's happened, so with a knock on the counter to get Cole's attention, she goes, “God, what the fuck happened to you?”

A wrinkle forms in the space between Cole's eyebrows. “What the fuck happened to _you_?”

Santana's insulted for all of three seconds. But then, “What?” Because nothing happened to her. Nothing vital anyway. Sex is off the table for a good while if she decides to call Jenn back, but she's not going to die or anything horrible like that.

Cole, on the other hand...well, she's fucking in love, and Santana never thought she'd see the day Cole—loose, fly by night, lazy dazy Cole—turned uptight and anxious over some girl she only just met. Santana briefly wonders if she should feel at least a little bit of the same way about Jenn. Sure, they've only just met too, but how come her heart doesn't go pitter patter, or thump thump? How come she doesn't become defensive when Henry jokes about their semi-budding relationship, or how come she doesn't fall asleep to the thought of Jenn's kisses?

Cole licks her lips and then runs a hand through her tangled, blue locks. “We both try to act like we don’t need people, Santana. We try to act like we don’t need love, and do you know why?" she asks, and Santana thinks it's a rhetorical question until Cole waits a beat for a response. Santana shakes her head, so Cole continues with, "It’s because we got our hearts broken, so we keep love at a distance, but we’re still human beings, and I’m in love, and I wanna be in love. I’m tired of not caring. I want to care, don’t you?”

That...that right there is probably the most emotion Santana's ever heard from Cole, and it definitely throws her. Unsure of what to say, she glances away and stammers, “I do, but—”

“Call her back.”

“How did you—”

“Lesbian gossip is like herpes, dude," Cole says, cracking an actual smile now; it's weak and vulnerable, but at least it's real. "Call Jaime back and—”

“Jenn.”

“—and tell her that you’ll go without sex forever if it means someone to hold you at night.”

Santana almost drops the shot glass she's wiping down, because forever? No sex _forever_? Fuck...that. She can deal with a few months, but there's no way in hell she'd swear off sex just for a cuddle here and a cuddle there. Sure, she wants to find love again one day, because who doesn't, but not in exchange for abstinence. That's not a fair trade.

But then Cole gives her this intense look and says, "I've had so much meaningless sex in my life that now all I want is something meaningful for once. But I want it with someone I can't have." Cole looks down at her beer bottle with a frown and swishes it around. "You can have Jane—"

" _Jenn_."

"—and she's waiting for you. All you have to do is say the word, and she's yours."

Well, when it's put like that it kind of makes Santana feel...well, selfish. So freaking selfish. There are people in this world desperately searching for the one, and here Santana is, casting off someone who could possibly mean something to her someday, all because Jenn doesn't want to jump into bed with her after the second date.

God, she hasn't felt like such a sleaze since she started fucking Puckerman.

People have told her that she has a bad habit of wanting what she can't have, and once she gets it, she's out the door. It's not like she does it on purpose, but after the thrill has died, what's even the point anymore?

But this time she wants to do something different. She doesn't want to be known as the womanizer in the only lesbian nightclub in town. She doesn't want stupid rumors floating around about how she hits and quits, leaving women alone in bed to wake up next to a cold, empty dent to their right.

After that thing with Quinn, even Rachel advised her to maybe try out one girl for a change, and—although it pisses her off sometimes—Rach is almost always right. Santana's still kind of thrown about the no sex rule, but hell, she decides to go for it. She's not opposed to touching herself, and there's porn out there for this very reason.

"Fine, Cole," Santana grumbles, popping open a bottle of Bacardi. "My heart is open as long as Jenn's legs promise to follow suit once this—"

"Oh my God!" is shrieked from somewhere in the bar, successfully cutting off Santana's well-crafted joke. She and Cole turn their heads to find a crowd forming in the back, and Santana curses under her breath. Great. _Awesome_. All she needs is a fight to break out tonight.

Not only has her week been bad, but her day has already sucked so hard it's actually un-fucking-real. This is all she needs to make today the worst day since coming to New York, and that includes the time Rachel accidentally locked her out on the fire escape for a good two hours in the fucking cold.

She and Cole push through a throng of drunkards and dancers to find Kurt and Henry in the middle of all the commotion. It's become quiet now—the music has even stopped—and Santana almost thinks she's seeing things when her eyes land on Kurt kneeling down before Henry with a black pleather box in his hand.

Holy mother of God, he is not. Wait. Yeah, he is.

And he does.

Smiling like a goober, Kurt wipes at a tear before sliding the ring onto Henry's finger. It's...fuck, it's a pretty damn sparkly band too, and Santana briefly wonders how much dough Kurt is stacking before her attention is brought back to the real world by an elbow in her side.

Cole is clapping enthusiastically along with everyone else at the club as Henry plants a wet one right on Kurt's puckered lips. It's been weeks since their breakup, and Santana seriously thought they were as good as done, but it seems anything could happen, including a gay proposal at a lesbian nightclub.

This is probably the dumbest thing Kurt has ever done and the stupidest thing Santana has ever witnessed, but when Cole smiles at her with tears in her eyes, Santana claps her hands anyway, albeit a bit mockingly, because shit, although this is fucking nuts, Santana can't say that she doesn't appreciate the romanticism of it all.

—

**4 days**

Nothing makes any fucking sense anymore.

Kurt and Henry are engaged, Rachel's leaving in a few days for Philly, and the craziest thing of all, Santana might be kind of dating someone. Kind of. Someone who shockingly won't put out, which yes, really sucks, but if Cole can hold out for some stranger she claims to love, then Santana supposes she can tape her thighs shut until Jenn is ready.

Ever since the engagement, Kurt and Henry have been fucking like rabbits—she and Rachel invested in some lovely earplugs yesterday, after Rachel profusely congratulated the lucky couple (apparently she's okay with the whole sudden engagement thing, which c'mon, shouldn't be too much of a surprise considering she was super close to hitching it up with Finnept only last year)—and it's not like Santana's jealous of their relationship or anything, but she is kind of jealous of their sex life. She doesn't mean to sound like a total guy, but Jenn's not letting up, and she does have needs.

To her, intimacy is very important in a relationship, and she tells Jenn as much over the phone when she finally makes it a point to call her back, but then Jenn just laughs and says there are other ways in which they can be intimate without going at it like gorillas, like handholding and talking and kissing and cuddling and spooning, and it's kind of weird, because Santana's never really done anything like that with the people she's never slept with—no one except Rachel, anyway, but Rach is different.

Somehow, Rachel has become the exception out of everyone, and all of their friends seem to get that—like, they don't even bat an eye. Everybody except Jenn. She's not territorial or anything, but it's kind of obvious that she finds Santana and Rachel's relationship obscure.

They get along well enough, and Jenn's always super polite despite what she thinks of their friendship, but Rachel...well, Santana guesses she's dealing however way she can, and that's basically by avoiding the loft at all costs whenever Jenn's over.

 _Girls_. Just because she is one doesn't mean she understands them. Hell, she barely understands _herself_.

Anyway, this abstinence thing is going to take eons of self-control, but fuck, this isn't just about holding out. This is about proving that she can withhold and actually keep a promise to herself for once.

—

**3 days**

Henry laughs for an hour when she tells him; Rachel looks strangely relieved; Kurt just stares at her, and Angela...

Actually, why the fuck is Angela even here?

"She's our wedding planner," Kurt tells her, and what the fuck?

Santana laughs dryly. “You're kidding.”

Smiling mockingly, Angela rounds the couch and plops down next to Rachel with a grin. “They're not. I've planned weddings before, Santana. All it is really is just one, big party."

"And we all know how extravagant her bashes are,” Kurt says, flicking through the channels as he rakes his fingers through Henry’s curly hair, “so we’ve decided to take a leap of faith."

Henry shrugs. “Also, she's free.”

"Ah, now that makes more sense."

"That's beside the point though,” Angela cuts in, eyebrows raised to her hairline, because she seems to be the only one interested in shit that’s none of her business. Her smile widens as she practically dissects Santana with her crystal blue eyes, and Santana shifts awkwardly. “So, Jenn's abstinent. I totally didn't see that one coming."

"She's not abstinent, exactly,” Santana scoffs, because that’s not what this is, right? Jenn said it would only last for a few months or so, which isn't too big of a deal. But if it does go on for longer than that, Santana might just explode. “She's just—she's...”

"Unwilling to put out until Santana disproves all the rumors floating around Silk,” Henry supplies with a snicker.

Santana shoots him a glare as Rachel arches a brow, curious. "What rumors?" she wonders.

"The ones about how she's this prowling ladykiller who bangs chicks in the back alleyway and then never talks to them again,” Angela tells her, and how do all of these freaks know this? Is Santana’s life the only point of interest in their boring, measly worlds?

"Gross,” Kurt mumbles, scrunching up his nose. “Really?"

"No, _not_ really.” Santana rolls her eyes up to the ceiling and knocks her sock clad feet against the coffee table. “I’ve never had sex in that dirty ass alley, and not that it's any of your damn business,” she bites, aiming the remark in Angela’s direction, “but I haven't, you know—slept around in weeks."

" _Weeks_?” Angela feigns shocked, and then purses her lips. “Please, spare me the tears. You know how long Rachel's gone without? Now _that's_ tragic."

"Angela," Rachel snaps, and then breathes out a disgruntled sigh through clenched teeth. Seriously, Santana almost forgot Rachel was in the room, but she twists her lips to the side as everyone focuses their attention in the brunette's direction. "I've been listening to this nauseating conversation in silence for much too long now. Honestly, I find Jenn's no sex rule refreshing. This generation is so obsessed with who's doing whom, and really, I'm slightly curious as to why our culture glorifies sex as if it's a holy statue of worship?"

Santana could answer that question right here, _right now_ , if she’d like, and so could anyone else in the room. Sex is great, if you're having it with the right person and/or gender. Orgasms too. There's another good answer: sweet, sweet orgasms. And Kurt must agree, because he lifts a finger to reply, but Henry slaps it down with a look and then nods at Rachel to continue.

"At the end of the day, I think we should all be more like Jenn and not hold sex on such a high pedestal when there are so many other aspects of a romantic relationship to explore. I don’t know about you all, but it would be lovely if we could take a vow of celibacy and allow a moment to appreciate all the other wonderful qualities granted to us in this life," Rachel finishes before smoothing out her short skirt.

If crickets could hop up seven flights of stairs, they would all be hearing them right now.

“No sex,” Angela drawls, thoughtfully, breaking the odd silence. "Um. No thank you."

Kurt bows his head with a smile, looking like he wants to laugh, and Henry blinks, mumbling, "So, on that note, I think dinner's ready. Who's hungry?"

A chorus of me's ring out, and Kurt hurries into the kitchen after his fiancé to set the table. Angela's left twiddling her thumbs while Santana knocks her foot against the coffee table again, feeling kind of sorry for Rachel, because everyone and their mother knows Rachel's only done it once and with only one person. It's not common knowledge, but it's pretty fucking obvious.

Awkward as hell, no one dares look in Rachel’s direction as she walks out of the living room and then into the bathroom down the hall. Santana doesn’t go after her, and she kind of hates herself for it.

—

After dinner, she meets Rachel out on the fire escape. Santana pulls out a cigarette, and then Rachel surprises her for the second time tonight when she asks for one.

"Seriously," she says, looking at Rachel strangely, because this can't be the same girl who's told her time and time again how bad smoking is for both the environment and her body. Rachel just raises her eyebrows, waiting, so Santana shrugs a shoulder and then holds out the box before lighting her up.

They're silent for a long time, longer than usual, which is weird when around Rachel, because that girl always has something to say. But Santana doesn't push and decides to just wait for Rachel to start the conversation, and she definitely will, sooner or later.

She's surprised for the third time tonight when Rachel finishes the cigarette, throws it over the railing into a dank puddle, and then leaves Santana out on the fire escape alone.

—

**2 days**

Jenn's going to some movie premiere tonight for this film coming out in the spring starring Meryl Streep and Alec Baldwin, and apparently Jenn's not ready to announce a relationship that's only been going on for a few weeks, so Santana's left alone for the early evening.

And she's bored.

There's a television that could use some watching, but fuck that. Her best friend is bailing on her soon, and Santana only has two more days to pick on Rachel until she can only bother her through text messages and daily phone calls. She might as well spend time with Rach while she can.

Santana finds her roommate diligently sorting clothes in her corner of the loft. With a sly grin, she slips her way inside and hugs Rachel from behind, startling the girl into a little jump. "God, Santana," she mumbles through a laugh, slapping at the grabby hand resting on her stomach. "Quit doing that, or else..."

"Or else, what?" Santana asks, wondering if her response will be any better than Sweeney's threat.

"Or else I'll call my lawyers," she kids.

Santana only smiles as she lets go and then plops down on Rachel's bed. Humming under her breath, Rachel goes back to packing, and Santana tries to help fold but she keeps on getting distracted by the very noticeable lump underneath Rachel's pillow beside her.

"So, random question. What do you write in that thing?" she asks, gesturing to the pillow. "S'not like you've been desperately crushing on anyone lately." But then a thought hits her, and it almost makes her nauseous. Almost. "Oh God, please don't let it be all about your breakup with Finn."

Rachel rounds the bed and then tugs the journal out from under her pillow, defensively squeezing it to her chest. "It's not about Finn. I was over him a long time ago."

" _Four months_ ," Santana coughs into her fist.

Rachel scowls. "No. Longer than that, actually."

"Really?" she drawls, unconvinced. "Then what's in the book?"

"Notes."

"Notes?"

"Yes, notes," Rachel repeats, huffing in frustration. "Things I've noticed."

Santana flops back against the bed and then looks at Rachel upside down. "Then why can't I see?" she mumbles, fluttering her eyelashes enticingly, because the ladies always fall for that.

Rachel softens a bit, but not much. "They're private notes."

Well, duh. She's made that much clear, but Santana can't help but wonder what could be so private about it. They share everything. At least, Santana thought they did. "Are they notes about me?" she throws out there, just for the hell of it.

"What?" Rachel giggles, running a hand through her hair as her cheeks visibly color. “Conceited much? Why would I ever write anything about—"

"Yo, Barbs, calm down. I was just pulling your tail," Santana cuts her off, because she can sense a ramble coming on, and for real, nobody got time for that. "But you know, I did let you read my screenplay. I think it's only fair that I get to have a small peek at what's inside that secret diary of yours."

Rachel pauses thoughtfully before circling the bed, and then she stands right in front of Santana with an odd grin. "Wanna peek?" she says, holding the journal out, but Santana doesn't reach forward, because she's seen enough movies and read enough books to realize this is a trick. "Here." Rachel opens the journal and then quickly closes it in Santana's face, causing her to squint her eyes as a breeze blows her hair to the side.

"Real mature, Berry," she mutters, sorely unamused. Santana hates not having the upper hand (it actually makes her break out sometimes), so without really thinking, she snatches the journal out of Rachel's hands, and literally—like, no joke—Rachel's entire face loses all it's orange coloring, and she turns ghostly pale, as if all the life just drains right out of her.

Confused, Santana holds the journal back out with an apology on her tongue, but Rachel only snatches the book back with an odd glisten in her eyes. She takes a shuttering, deep breath and then shoulders past Santana without another word.

They never talk about it again, but that doesn't stop Santana from wondering what's in that motherfucking journal.

—

Her boss—big, scary mobster dude with the slick black hair—calls her at ten o'clock, two hours before her shift starts, to inform Santana that she doesn't have to come in tonight. Apparently Silk is shut down for the weekend because it's under some kind of investigation for hiring and serving underaged people, as well as a slew of other misdemeanors that Santana's always played dumb to.

So, instead of working tonight, since that's no longer an option, she decides to take a long, hot shower and then annoy Rachel some more. What can she say? She's gonna miss the kid.

Rachel's at the kitchen counter, scrolling through her iPad, so Santana peeks over her shoulder to see what she's doing. It's not porn—which, duh; Rach probably thinks voyeurism is morally wrong, right along with sex in general—but Santana sure wishes it was. Frustration doesn't even begin to explain how she's feeling. It's only been about a month since she and Cole decided to stop fucking, and holy fuck, this suppression thing is a monster.

But she wants to prove everyone—Kurt, Angela, Cole, Henry—dead wrong, so she continues to date Jenn despite the no sex rule, even though it's physically killing her.

"I can't believe this stupid rule," she grumbles, dragging her feet around the island in circles. "I'm so fucking horny I could hump a lamp post right about now."

Rachel only rolls her eyes and then takes a bite out of her plum. "You know just as much as I do that there are other ways in which to extinguish that urge."

" _Rachel_ ," Santana drawls, eyebrows raised in surprise as she hefts herself up onto the countertop. "Are you of all people encouraging me to fuck myself?"

Rachel wipes her mouth and then levels Santana with a look. "Santana," she says dryly.

"What?"

"N-never mind," she stammers, clearing her throat. "Just...don't say things like that outside of this apartment or people will think you're uncivilized."

Santana rolls her eyes, and then slowly swings her legs back and forth. She doesn't want to make this conversation all serious and stuff, but this is Rachel, so she'll understand. She's the only one who ever understands. "Surprisingly, you're probably the only person I can talk to about this. I mean, I'm not insecure or anything," she says, and then catches Rachel's pointed look with a sigh. " _Much_. But this is sex, and while I don't exactly need it to live, I do still _need_ it. Eventually."

Looking back down at her iPad, Rachel smirks through another bite out of her plum. "Well, if you have at least a pinch of resolve," she puts her thumb and pointer finger really close together, "I'm sure you can hold out. Prove everyone wrong."

Santana nods. "Yeah. Especially Kurt with—"

"His bitchy stance on scratching that itch whenever it calls," Rachel says, obviously still pissed about everyone's opinion over casual sex from the other day.

Santana gives her a short look. "Um, no. I was gonna say his prissy little holier than thou complex," because seriously, ever since Henry accepted his proposal, Kurt's been totally feeling himself, thinking he is God's gay gift to the world or something. "But whatever," she says with a shrug, and then looks over at Rachel as she starts filling in her electronic sudoku. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?" she mumbles distractedly.

"You know..." Santana says, laying down flat on the counter until she's practically peering up Rachel's nose. "How do you hold out for so long?"

Rachel pinches her eyebrows together. A very noticeable blush crawls up her neck, but it's even more visible from this angle. “You don't know whether I've..."

"Please, Rach," Santana scoffs, rolling over, because this position is kind of insanely uncomfortable for her back. "You and I both know you haven't gotten any since Finny boy dropped your ass off at the train station. I mean, wow, how long has it even been? Nine months? _Ten_?"

Santana honestly doesn't think she's ever gone that long without sex since she lost her virginity freshman year to Puckerman in his dad's old pickup truck. Ever since then, sex has always been there, as a way to gain respect and power, as a way to connect with the girl she loved, as a way to express everything she couldn't say out loud.

It's always been there, in some form or fashion, but now that Jenn's abstinent, one of Santana's biggest fears is that she won't be able to find a way to connect, and really, where to go from there? How is she supposed to express herself through touch if she can't freaking touch her own...

Fuck. What the hell _are_ they even?

Rachel's just staring at her now, and Santana almost thinks she's in trouble for asking such a personal question, but then Rachel seems to snap out of it as she gets up from her stool and leaves the kitchen.

Santana sits up and watches her go. "Rach?"

"Sex for me isn't the same as it is for you. Finn was my first and only." Rachel's voice carries from the living area, and so Santana slides off the countertop, slips into the next room, and then perches herself on the arm of Kurt's chair, watching carefully as Rachel straightens up. "I loved him, and that's what we shared when we connected for the first time," she explains, distractedly fluffing a pillow. "It's not all about getting off for me, and I suppose that's what Jenn feels too by this rule of hers."

Rachel grumbles when Santana lies across the couch on top of the cover she was probably about to fold. "You know, it's funny you say that, because after Britt and I got together, we didn't really have as much sex as we did before," she says casually, even though this is the most they've ever talked about sex without it getting weird, because Rachel is like her hot step-sister or something. Talking to her about sex is like talking to her mom about sex sometimes, which just makes it even weirder when she says, "We still fucked a lot and it was super hot, believe me, but I don't know. Our being in love kind of filled a void that sex used to only just cover."  

Santana's staring up at the ceiling with her arms tucked underneath her head, so she completely misses the look that flashes across Rachel's face in response to her comment. There's a brief moment of silence, and then, "That's kind of...sweet, I suppose."

"I suppose," Santana mumbles, fighting a smile, but she'll admit to being sweet. She'll even admit to allowing her brain to venture into places it used to fear entrance, because thinking about Britt isn't as off-putting as it used to be, but don't get her wrong; it still ain't all jolly either. "That doesn't solve my problem though."

Rachel sits down next to her and then takes Santana's legs into her lap. "Would you really call something like this a problem?"

Santana thinks about it for a moment and then nods. "Yes. Big problem.“

"Maybe if you change your perspective and think of this as more of a challenge than a punishment, the remaining days will go by faster and it'll be more rewarding in the end."

Santana always knew Rachel was smart, but—damn. Using reverse psychology on herself just might do the trick. "You're like, my own personal sex-Yoda."

Laughing, Rachel swats at Santana's leg. It hurts, but not in a bad way. "I'm going to take that as a compliment."

"Good. You should. Yoda's the man," she says, and then pauses, because she doesn't even _like_ Star Wars, and Rachel's giving her a look that she presumes warrants an explanation. "Sam."

Rachel clicks her tongue. "Figured."

Sam turned her into a such nerd when they dated, and it makes Santana wonder if he talks about any of that Star Wars stuff with Britt now, and if Britt really even cares or understands what he explains to her in the first place. Santana thinks about that for all of three seconds, but the lack of sex must really be getting to her, because then a kinky Star Wars image she'd really rather not ever see pops into her mind, and—just no. _No_.

Rachel sighs, successfully bringing Santana back into the real world. Nimble fingers stroke her feet through the fuzzy socks she's wearing, and it feels amazing. She's used to being on her feet all of the time from working at Cobblestones, but moving up and down the bar counter at Silk is a new thing entirely, and it's really starting to fuck her over. Thankfully, Rachel seems to get that, somehow, and so she squeezes at the arch of Santana's feet, and—goddamn, it's heaven.

Really, they're just sitting here in silence. The television's not on, and Rachel's not going to bed anytime soon since she still has to pack, and Santana could possibly be out of work, so it's just the two of them and the creaky pipes and the honking of the horns outside, and…it's kind of nice. Just lying around and chilling and talking to her best friend. It's new but old. Like how things used to be.

Sighing, Santana wiggles her toes to get Rachel to massage deeper and harder. It works, but she flinches when Rachel peels off her socks, because those tiny hands are always so goddamn cold. "Any other advice, oh wise one?" she asks, allowing her eyes to close.

Rachel kneads her thumbs into the heel of Santana's foot. "I'm only telling you this because, well, we're so close and everything," she says, a little unsteadily, but Santana just smiles and waits. "If you turn the dial on the shower head, the pressure increases, and if you hover it over a certain area for long enough, the result is not unpleasant."

She tries to withhold her laughter, but that just makes it burst out even louder. "Rach, I know it's been a long time, and while I appreciate all of these dirty little insiders, you really should get out more."

Blushing profusely, Rachel pushes Santana’s feet away and then slides further down the couch. “Well, fine. I’ll get out more once you get over Jenn’s no sex rule,” she mumbles, but there’s a smile on her face.

Santana smiles back with an easy shrug. “Guess you’re not going to Philly anytime soon,” she responds, which is just fine with her.

—

**1 day**

So, the boss is one hell of a sweet talker, and Silk is back open only one night after the whole shutdown fiasco. Santana's slinging drinks, chatting up customers, and sneaking some tequila for herself when Angela quickly walks past, muttering, "Incoming," under her breath.

(Basically, Todd finds out through Clark, who was told by Dina, who learned from John, who of course got the downlow from Angela. Fucking Angela. When will that bitch learn to mind her own damn business and keep her abnormally large mouth shut?)

Todd stalks across the bar with this constipated baby face that reminds Santana way too much of Finn Hudson. Her first reaction is to roll her eyes, but the big guy really does look upset, and Santana supposes she actually does feel bad about seeing Jenn behind his back after he blatantly told her not to over at least fifteen times on seven different occasions.

(Somehow, it has spread around the bar that she's a womanizer and fucks girls and leaves them in the morning without a word. But that's all complete bullshit. Santana always wakes the women up to tell them she's leaving. S'not her fault they're so hungover they can barely open their eyes, and Santana has shit to do. She's not going to just hang around and wait for them to scrape the gook out of their eyeballs.)

Todd hisses out a breath through clenched teeth. "Santana," is all he says at first, and then he presses his lips together so hard they actually turn white. "Why would you—are you fucking deaf or something? I tell you to stay away from my sister, and now I hear you're _fucking_ her?"

Santana scrapes her teeth across her bottom lip. "Well, funny story, because—"

"You know, you are the worst kind of bitch, because you don't fucking listen."

Wait. Hold up. Santana was planning on talking this out like a couple of mature adults, but fuck that. No one calls her a bitch except Kurt and Rachel. Narrowing her eyes, she slams her hand towel onto the counter with a sneer. "Excuse me, Sweeney? I don't think I heard you clearly. Mind repeating?" she challenges.

But Todd only shakes his head. "You know how many women in here want you and could actually give you what you want?" he asks her, lowering his voice as he hunches over the counter. "Jenn isn't right for you. She can't give you that."

"I know that. I know that _now_ ," she mutters, darting her eyes to the side. "But maybe—you don't know; maybe I could change for her." Todd stares at Santana for a long moment before laughing right in her face. It hurts like hell. "Shut up," she says, gripping on tighter to the dingy rag in her hand. "It's not funny. You don't think I can do it?"

"Oh, I know you can do it," he empathizes dryly, fluttering his eyelashes at her. " _Not_ doing it is the problem, remember?"

"Well, despite what you might think, Jenn believes in me. I mean, why would she go out with me then?" Todd looks her over with a raised eyebrow, but he doesn't say anything, and Santana's cheeks burn angrily as she throws up her hands. "This isn't your say, got it? If you have a problem with us being together, you tell it to Jenn, because I don't owe you anything. I barely fucking know you. And you don't know me."

Todd harrumphs. "You want what you can't have, Santana. I know that much."

"Shut the fuck up," she growls lowly.

"You think that you're so sexy she won't be able to resist you and eventually give in, but that's not gonna happen," he says, practically peering down on her. "I'm her twin brother. I know Jenn better than anyone, and she doesn't want to be another clumsy notch on your bedpost, Santana." Santana scoffs at that and twitches her nose in embarrassment, because people are starting to look over at them, but Todd only narrows his eyes and asks, "You do know why she does this, don't you?"

A bunch of answers pop into Santana's head at the question; respect, power, purity, safety. But the truth is, she actually never even analyzed the why, which now that she thinks about it, is kind of cruddy. All she's been able to think about is how all of this will affect her. But what about Jenn? How does _she_ feel?

Todd seems to take Santana's silence as ignorance, which is actually pretty spot on. She doesn't know, and it kills her a little to admit that. "Jenn wants to make sure you're really in this, and not just planning on bailing once you get what you want. She's gotten hurt in the past by girls like you who only want one thing," he says, his voicing softening a little, but not much. It still booms over the loud music, so he's definitely not whispering. "If you don't believe me, just google her name."

Some of the hot boiling blood drains from her system at that, but she doesn't let it show. Knitting her eyebrows together, Santana flares her nostrils, and then murmurs, "I believe you," because she kind of already did google Jenn's name, and hunting down those no-good bitches who broke Jenn's heart in the past has been on her to-do list for quite some time now.

"Good. Don't screw this up, because I swear—" Todd's face turns red as he points a finger in her direction and ignores the nosey patrons tuning into their heated confrontation. "You break her heart, you're gonna wish you never even held it in your hands, Lopez."

—

**0 days**

It's embarrassing, and not something she'd usually say, especially since she's not a pussy, but it's Rach, and she's leaving for three fucking weeks, so with a roll of her eyes, she tugs on Rachel's hand and then mutters, "I'll miss you, you know."

"I know," Rachel says, grinning all Rachel-like as she rolls her bag behind her on their way to the train in Penn Station.

Santana smiles to herself and then hefts up the heavy bag she's carrying on her back. She has no idea how Rachel's going to be able to carry all of this shit on her own when she has to transfer trains, but her girl is stronger than she looks, so hopefully it won't be too much of a hassle.

"I'm going to miss you too, Santana," Rachel says, eventually, once they've reached the point in which they say their goodbyes.

This is fucking stupid. Santana shouldn't feel so weird about Rachel going away for a little while, because seriously, it's not like she's never coming back. She'll only be gone for an extended spring break, and then New York will call for Rachel again, because this is her place, or something; Broadway is here, and NYADA is here, and all of Rachel's friends are here.

Santana's here.

Rachel's looking up at her with this tiny smile, all silent and whatnot, and if Santana's being honest, she's actually waiting for Rachel to start talking her ear off. If there was ever a time for Rachel to shut up, right now really isn't the time. Santana's going to miss that voice, so she wants to hear it as much as she can right now, but instead Rachel has suddenly clammed up, seemingly content with staring at Santana like a creep with one of those tiny smiles that mean so much yet speak so little.

Santana doesn't know why Rachel's so smiley, but she never gets a chance to ask, because then Rachel's wrapping her arms around Santana's neck and holding on to her for dear life. Santana's not expecting it in the slightest and almost tumbles forward, but she catches herself at the last moment and then rests her hands on Rachel's lower back, pulling her in even closer as Santana stuffs her face into Rachel's neck with a short inhale.

She's going to miss this scent.

Before pulling away, Rachel surprises her yet again with a quick peck on the cheek, and Santana absently thinks it's the best action she's gotten in the last month as she watches Rachel tug her bag behind her and onto the train.

Scuffing her converse against the concrete platform, she waits a good while as everyone else boards the train. It helps a little to bite down hard on her lip to calm her anxiety, but then the train starts moving, and she sees Rachel peering out at her through one of the windows. She lifts her hand in a lame wave, but then Rachel aims one of those tiny smiles at her again, and Santana can't help but smile back.

These next three weeks are going to be shit.


	4. oh honey, don't give me up

The fire escape. More of an escape for her thoughts than anything else, really. It doesn't have the best view, though when she first moved here, she was happy about that fact. Views come with expectations, and with expectations, hope. She had no room for hope back then. That's why she liked that the only view their fire escape offered was a dirty brick wall and a damp alleyway full of stoners. 

Now though, not so much. 

The fire escape is still useful for a good smoke, but staring off into a dirty brick wall just doesn't do it for her anymore. Santana would much rather the city lights that remind her of the fireflies back in Lima, or a pretty skyline like the kind on those NYC postcards she was supposed to send Puck back when she first moved out here. She never did send those, but Puck had been drunk when he told her to do it, so she doubts he even remembers saying that. 

Santana wraps her fingers around the cold railing on the fire escape and then pulls a box of cigarettes out of her sweatshirt pouch. It's been three days since she's last smoked. No one really seems to care, but Rachel would, if she knew. Jenn doesn't even know about her addiction, or whatever this is, and Santana doesn't really care to tell her. It's a point of weakness for her, and she doesn't know Jenn well enough yet to start getting all vulnerable and shit. Maybe in another month. Maybe. 

She stares at the full box of Marlboros for another beat before throwing it over the railing. It free falls down eleven flights and then lands in a puddle with a splat. Shockingly, only thirty seconds go by before a stoner passes, picks up the white box, dusts it off, and then sticks it in his coat pocket. Either she's hurting herself, or somebody else. Well. At least it's no longer both. 

\--

All the snow has finally melted, and thank God, because Santana was starting to think it'd never get warm again. It's the beginning of April, and never in Ohio has it ever been this cold for so long; not as long as it's been winter here in New York anyway. She's missed the warm weather, and it'd be awesome to maybe jog down to the park or something, but then she remembers Rachel's not here, and going by herself just seems kind of sad and lonely. 

She could ask Jenn to accompany her, but it wouldn't be the same, and anyhow, Jenn is more a person to coop herself up in her studio and paint all day long. 

Santana finds her passion totally sexy; the way she blasts loud rock music and dances around in these really short shorts as she splatters paint here and there, and even on herself. It's fun to watch and even more fun to participate in. It took her forever and a day to wash the purple paint out of her hair that one time, but it was totally worth the endless hours of laughter and giggles. 

Santana can really feel herself falling for Jenn, but every time she thinks too much into it, a pang in her chest tells her there's something missing. Maybe it's Brittany. Maybe it's Quinn. It's not Cole, that's for certain, but it's something, or someone, and it's holding her back from giving into Jenn completely. 

And she really wants to stop being so guarded with her feelings and finally let someone in. Jenn seems to be that perfect girl too. She doesn't judge, and she's always smiling, and she has the prettiest eyes. She's just as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside, and damn is she beautiful. 

Santana can look into her eyes all day as they talk about everything and nothing, but there's just something missing, and it's not even the sex, so don't go calling her an addict now. She's made peace with the whole abstinent thing. Well, kind of.

She and Jenn make out all the time. Like, she has never made out this much before in her life without going further, and it's not bad or anything. It's just different. Especially when she has to make a conscious effort to stop her hands from sliding below Jenn's hips, quietly chastising herself— _No, Santana, don't do that. Bad._  

Actually, a lot of things have been different now that she's dating Jenn. It's no secret that Jenn's an A-lister, so whenever they're out, people on the street look at them a little longer than usual. Santana even caught a guy in the bookstore trying to snap a sneaky picture of them the other day. 

She's never really paid much attention to those gossip magazines or entertainment news shows, so she would've never known the difference had Kurt kept this inside information to himself, but he did tell her, and he continues to talk about 'Miss Jennifer Hillary Malone' at any given opportunity, gushing over how famous Jenn is, and how good she is to the community, and about how much she gives back compared to the Hilton's and Kardashian's of the world. 

It's nice hearing that stuff from other people and all, but Santana's always been a person who likes to hear about people from themselves. If Jenn wants to tell Santana what she's doing in her private life, then she'll tell her, because who knows if any of the crap she hears is even true or not?

Jenn really seems to like that about Santana—that she doesn't give a shit what the gossipers say, or that it doesn't bother her too much that a few creeps with cameras are lurking behind them. She'll deal, and if hanging out with Jenn means ending up on the front page of a trashy magazine, at least she knows she's not alone. 

\--

As soon as Rachel arrived in Philly they spent two hours on the phone. Santana doesn't even really remember what they talked about, but she'd missed Rachel's voice, and it was nice to hear from her, even though they'd just seen each other only a few hours earlier. 

Rachel's barely gone for two days before Santana's calling her up again. She kind of expected Rachel to break down and call her first this time, but she's bored out of her fucking mind, so she finally gives in. Jenn is doing some charity work at an art gallery in Queens, Cole is practicing with her band, Kurt is at Vogue, Henry is a grown ass man with a 9 to 5, and Todd's still not talking to her, so not only is she bored, but she's fucking lonely too. 

This is probably the worst time Rachel could've gone on her theatre internship thingy. Everyone seems to be busy, while Santana has nothing to do, impatiently waiting for the summer to come so that she can just start her summer courses at NYU already. 

Rachel answers on the second to last ring, which would usually piss Santana off a little, but she's just happy Rachel answers the phone at all. They don't talk for too long, but Rachel gives her a summary of what's been going on in Philly. 

She's not alone down there since Daniel got into the theatre internship thingy too, so Rachel pretty much just maps out what they'll be doing and all the cool shit they'll be learning together, and no fucking way is Santana jealous of Daniel Ford, but it would be kind of cool to discover Philadelphia with her best friend the same way they discovered New York City together. 

But whatever.

When it's Santana's turn to share, she doesn't really know what to say. Not much has changed for her in the last few days. She doubts Rachel wants to hear about what's going on with Jenn—and like Santana even knows herself—so she talks a little about how dumb Henry and Kurt are, a little about how annoying Todd's silent treatment is, and a little about how Cole's super straight girl crush recently joined her band as the lead bassist. 

Really, there's not much to tell, and so they say their goodbyes after only a half hour conversation because Rachel is meeting Daniel for lunch before they're due back at the theatre. 

Santana scuffs her shoe against their boarded wood floor in the kitchen. "So," she mutters, licking at her dry lips. "Talk to you later?"

"Of course, Santana," Rachel says in that voice that always seems to come across so sweet and sincere, no matter what it is she's saying. 

Santana misses that voice. 

\--

She sees it on the bus on her way to work one day. She's just minding her own business, scrolling her thumb up and down Instagram, when she decides to peek up, and there it is: this giant ad above the seats across from her about health screening for sexually transmitted infections. 

First, she looks to her left, then to her right, and then quickly, she jots down the number on the ad in her contacts under the name _Computer Virus_ to maybe call later. Maybe. It's not that she's ashamed or anything, but after her conversation with Rachel the other day about being safe and clean or whatever, it just might be a good idea to get herself checked out, especially now that she may kind of be in a relationship or something. 

She's not really sure what they are to each other, but they're dating, that much is clear. They've just yet to agree on a label, which is totally fine with Santana. The last time she had a girlfriend, her heart was broken into a million pieces, she dropped out of school, and then moved to New York with nothing but a suitcase and the clothes on her back, so maybe this casual open relationship thing just might work out for the best. 

Jenn doesn't seem to be in much of a rush to define them, and Santana is more than grateful to have found a woman so laid back when it comes to this sort of thing. It might just be the free-spirited painter in Jenn—and Santana makes it a point to further analyze later why she always dates the artistic types—but thank God she's been seemingly carefree about all of this so far. 

It's as casual as casual can be. They meet up with each other when they have the time. Santana brings over takeout—shrimp lo mein, because it's Jenn's favorite—after she gets off work, because Jenn is a night owl and sometimes suffers from insomnia. They talk on the phone and text and shit. Jenn invites Santana over to her art studio in Manhattan, and Santana gets a front row seat to see Jenn do her thing. 

("My Picasso," she teases Jenn, which leads the other girl into playfully splattering buckets of paint at her. They get into a very colorful paint war, and Santana goes home covered in greens and yellows and reds, and although she receives strange looks on the subway, Santana can't help but smile, because whatever this is they're doing, it's working, so fuck Todd for thinking she couldn't handle a steamy-less relationship.)

For now, making out and talking a lot hasn't been all that bad—mostly because Jenn has lots of cool ideas and theories about the weirdest shit and they can literally talk and debate about shit for hours on end. It's easy and fun, and Santana's not complaining, because Jenn seems to be enjoying her company, for the most part, and Santana's really enjoying Jenn too, so really, what's there to complain about?

\--

They already have a date for the wedding, but Santana is still trying to figure out why this marriage is even happening in the first place. Kurt is only eighteen, and he's about to marry some dude he met only six months ago. Granted, Henry is awesome, and he and Kurt make an awesome team, but c'mon, is Santana the only one who finds this entire thing ludicrous? 

It's pretty damn clear to her that the only reason Kurt proposed was to get Henry back. The kid doesn't want to get _married_ , and he definitely doesn't want to settle down. These are all things Henry wants, and sure, it's finally compromise, but it's also fucking stupid, and Santana doubts this is going to fly with Kurt's dad, especially after the whole Finchel wedding fiasco of 2012. 

Angela is over all of the time now—helping out with the wedding plans and whatnot—which kind of makes zero sense. You know what else doesn't make sense? Why Kurt is still living in the loft when he has a fiancé with a perfectly spacious apartment only ten minutes away. It's obvious Henry doesn't get it either, but Kurt only says he's reluctant to move at this point in time because he doesn't believe in rushing their cohabitation before the wedding. 

That's another thing Santana doesn't get, but whatever. She knew all of this was a bad idea, but she's kept it to herself so far. No one seems to care about her opinions anyway. But when it comes to her friends—especially naive Henry who would do anything for love—Santana can't just stand back and watch the ground crumble beneath him. Nothing has changed in Kurt and Henry's relationship since their breakup, and Santana tells Henry as much, though he doesn't seem to want to listen. 

"Look, Red, you're my homeboy, so I'm gonna tell it to you like it is," she says one day, when Kurt and Angela are out consulting with a florist or something. "Kurt still has that godforsaken job at Vogue, he's still in his freshmen year of college, and he _still_ participates in a trillion extra-curriculars. Take it from me; the kid is never here, and when y'all finally tie the knot, he probably won't be there either." 

It's harsh and brutal, the way she delivers the information, but it's the only way he's going to listen up. And it works too. 

Henry's staring up at her, but his sparkly green eyes are just too much right now, so with a sigh, Santana looks away from him and says, "I know you want to think things have changed, but they really haven't." 

Henry nods and then scrunches up his freckled nose. "I appreciate the advice, Santana, and I apologize in advance if this comes off rude in any way," he begins, lifting his shoulders into a stiff, never-ending shrug, "but I fail to see how someone so afraid of commitment can give me pointers on my relationship when you can't even call Jenn your girlfriend yet."

His hostile response takes her completely by surprise, but maybe she shouldn't be so shocked by this. Santana was there when Henry was so devastated about the breakup, so it's no wonder the boy's in denial. Finally, Kurt is meeting him halfway, and everything he could have ever wanted out of their broken relationship is quickly mending itself. Too quickly, in Santana's opinion, but Henry is just so blissed out by the puny rock on his finger to see reason. 

"You don't know anything about that." Santana takes a deep breath, trying not to get defensive, because this isn't about her. Not really. "Jenn and I are happy the way we are right now. I mean, this is my entire point," she stresses, raising her eyebrows. "Where's the fire? What's the fucking _rush_?"

Henry just shakes his head and leans forward over the counter. "See, I don't think that's your issue here, Santana," he says, like he's some all-knowing psychologist or something, which he totally isn't. He may have studied it in undergrads, but where's that PhD, hm?

Rolling her eyes, Santana plays along. "Please, Henry, tell me what my issue is. I would love a quick diagnosis when _I'm_ not even the delusional one here."

Henry laughs dryly into his chest. "You're not being cautious, Santana. You're being a coward." She wants to smack the smirk right off of his face, but Henry's still talking, so maybe she'll slap him afterwards, though his smile only seems to grow as he whispers, "You know, it always feels as if you're waiting for something—as if you're wary to commit in fear of choosing the wrong person. Who are you waiting for, Santana? Who?"

He's really pushing her buttons now, but Santana won't let him get to her. Again, this isn't about her. "I'm not waiting for anyone. I'm only nineteen. Kurt's only _eighteen_. I get it, Henry. You're ready. You wanna go all in, but Kurt—" Santana bites her lip with a shake of her head. "He's not."

Henry only stares, those green eyes looking right through her, and Santana almost thinks he'll cry, and he probably does, but not in front of her. His nostrils flare, and his ears turn red, but he doesn't say a word as he grabs his satchel and then slides the front door shut with a loud clang on his way out. 

\--

They make up two days later when Santana brings over a bucket of Henry's favorite Rocky Road ice cream. He prefers the Oreo toppings over Kit-Kat and M&M. She discovered it was his favorite during his and Kurt's breakup, and the stuff literally makes him feel better about anything and everything. 

When he opens the door, they have a short stare off, but then Santana uncovers the bucket from out of a brown paper bag she's carrying, and Henry's face lights up like a fucking Christmas tree or something. 

They don't say much to each other after Henry welcomes her in, but when he offers her a spoon and they cuddle up on the couch to watch the _Cosmos: A Space Odyssey_ , she knows they'll be okay. 

Just to be clear though, this is not her apologizing. It's simply a truce.

\--

She's free to masturbate whenever she wants now. The fridge is all hers since Kurt doesn't eat much except his daily cup of yogurt and some Thai takeout after work. She doesn't have to wake up extra early to get a good half hour to herself in the bathroom. There's nobody around to argue over whether they should watch a documentary or a musical on Netflix. The remote is never lost. 

These are just some of the things Santana has noticed since Rachel's been gone, and although they may seem nice, they actually suck. She's practically living alone nowadays, which fuck, she would have loved back in September, but now it's disconcerting, especially when she's off from work and the loft is all dark and creaky at night. 

Despite not moving in, Kurt usually spends the nights with Henry, leaving Santana to fend for herself. She could watch porn on the big screen. She could walk around naked. She could fuck herself into next Tuesday. But instead of doing anything smutty, she writes it instead, and then hopes no one ever finds it, because this is the dirtiest shit she's ever read. It's good—so, so good—but it's also bad. Like, naughty bad. 

It makes her horny just reading it over, and so she slips her hand down her stomach and past the waistband of her yoga pants. It's already dark out, and if Kurt was going to be back, he would've been back by now. Santana's breathing heavily now and she hasn't even touched herself yet. It's just been so fucking long, and her sex drive has always been a powerful little bitch. She wants to take it slow, fuck herself nice and easy, the way she'd want Jenn to take her if they weren't waiting. 

Closing her eyes, Santana imagines her hand as Jenn's, slowly skimming past the elastic of her panties, fingers hesitantly dipping between wet folds. Her breath hitches at the sticky heat she finds there. Santana imagines Jenn would be tentative, unsure of how slow or fast to go considering it's been so long since the last time she's touched someone. 

Before she knows it, Santana's circling her clit, eyebrows knitted in concentration as she angles her wrist in the perfect position to hit that perfect spot. She needs more, and in her mind, Jenn can read the signs all over Santana's face. She goes fast, and then pumps two fingers into Santana's core, her thumb continuing to play with Santana's sensitive clit, flicking it and prodding at it, and Santana can feel herself building up as sweat gathers on her temples, drips down the side of her face, and when it finally hits, she moans, " _Rachel!_ "

She stops immediately, bites down hard on her lip, and then squeezes her eyes shut as she rides out the rest of her orgasm in absolute, mortified silence. After coming down, she removes her hands from her pants, wipes her sticky fingers off on her shirt, and then goes to bed, praying she didn't actually just scream the name she thinks she screamed. 

\--

It's spring break, and Jenn is super duper loaded, so she goes on vacation to Naples with her super duper loaded family. Todd stays behind, but that's because he's the rebel of the family (or so Jenn tells her). Since Santana's pretty much broke, the only communication they can have is through email or else it would cost her an arm and a leg, though it's never as satisfying as actually getting to see Jenn face-to-face, or getting to spend actual time with her. 

It's not until Rachel's gone for a full week that Santana notices she talks to Rachel more than her kind-of-girlfriend. But Santana somehow decides that's justifiable, seeing as Rachel's her best friend. Most girls talk to their female friends more and for longer amounts of time than their significant others, right? She supposes it's normal enough, until she finds herself missing Rachel more than Jenn during the days, but then she reasons that's because Rachel has always been there, while Jenn is still pretty new in her life. 

She and Rachel talk almost every night on the phone before Santana goes to work. They even have a system. Santana calls on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. Rachel calls on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. A couple times—on Santana's nights off—they even stay on the phone all night long, and Santana's a fucking zombie in the morning. 

Kurt and Henry give her these weird looks whenever Rachel calls, and she'd ask them what that's all about, except the thing is she doesn't really give a shit. They can judge and think whatever they want, because they've never had a best friend like this. Santana's never even had a best friend like this. 

Brittany comes really close, but they were always closer in a different kind of way, while Rachel is just... _Rachel_. While Brittany didn't always understand, Rachel just _knows_. She's like that person Santana can go to about anything, and she honestly doesn't know what she'd being doing in this city without her. 

\--

She doesn't know what to do with herself most of the time. The apartment is lonely and eerily silent now that Rachel isn't there with her hourly vocal exercises, or her never-ending lectures about animal rights, vegan culinary options, and global warming. Kurt's hardly ever home during the day because of his job at Vogue and his wedding planning with Angela, so the loft is now just an empty depressing cave of what used to be. 

When Santana wakes up in the morning, there is no familiar sound of a blender or juicer. There's never any warm coffee in the coffeemaker because Kurt doesn't know how to make it the way she likes it; not like Rachel does.

Hanging out with Cole has been boring and gloomy ever since that girl from Columbia broke her heart. Falling for straight girls is such a waste of time. Santana learned that the hard way with Quinn. It's a good thing she didn't get too deep before it could actually hurt her. She talks to Quinn over the phone on the regular still, and they keep in touch through text all the time, but they'll never be as close as she is with Rachel.

Cole sighs from where she's sitting beside Santana at the kitchen counter. "Why are we doing this again?" she asks, for about the third time since she's been here. 

"I'm just looking out for her."

Cole smacks her gum and then stretches it out away from her clenched teeth. "You're stalking her," she says, rolling up the piece of gum between her fingers before popping it back into her mouth. 

Santana grimaces with a roll of her eyes. "Not stalking. Concerned," she corrects, but really, she's only doing this for two reasons and for two reasons only. One, she's bored and her shift doesn't start until ten tonight, and two, Rachel has never been the best judge of character when it comes to the guys in her life, so it's important that Santana makes sure Rachel doesn't waste her time with any losers while she's down in Philly. 

"Grade A creep," Cole mumbles under her breath, leaning her head back as she blows a giant pink bubble. It pops in midair and flattens across her lower face, and Santana takes one look at Cole before deciding she needs more friends. 

"And you're a hypocrite," Santana says, shoving her laptop aside with a frustrated sigh. "I mean, let's stop pretending you don't make a habit of checking Parker's Instagram at least twice a day, but hey, I never say a word."

Cole grabs the laptop and pulls it toward her with a sincere smile. "That's totally different, dude. I'm in love with her," she professes, like it's just so damn easy for her to say. "She's my soulmate, so it makes sense that I check in with her. Rachel's just your...your—"

"Friend," Santana supplies, cutting Cole with a warning look. 

"Sure, your friend," Cole says flippantly with a wave of her hand, "Or whatever you two _really_ are to each other..."

Santana ignores her, because not this shit again. She and Rachel are only friends, and they have each other's backs. That is all. Despite what may have happened in high school, Santana would do anything to keep Rachel safe, and since Rachel is no longer here to protect, it only means she has to watch over her from afar now. Rachel was there for her during her darkest times when she first moved to the city. She'll never be able to thank her best friend enough for not giving up on her, so this is how Santana will repay her. 

Cole sighs and swiftly changes the subject. "So, Jenn Malone," she drawls, and Santana watches as Cole types in Parker's name on Facebook. Santana's only ‘stalking’ to protect her gullible roommate from weirdos, but Cole's the real stalker here. 

"What about her?" Santana asks, quirking an eyebrow. 

Scratching at the side of her blue head, Cole purses her lips and then side-eyes Santana. "She's cool with us hanging out like this?" 

Santana shrugs a shoulder, because she doesn't really know. Not like it matters though. "Probably."

"Probably?" Cole arches a brow, skeptical. "Dude, I've fucked you into pretzels Auntie Anne hasn't even cooked yet. Not too many girlfriends are _probably_ cool with that."

 _Jenn's not my girlfriend_ , Santana wants to say, but instead, she explains, "Like Rach, you're my friend, and Jenn is all the way in Naples, so whatever."

Somehow Cole has ended up on Jenn's Facebook, and Santana leans over as Cole scrolls through her pictures. There are photos of her latest paintings and sculptures, and they take Santana's breath away each and every time she sees them. Fuck, that girl is talented. 

"You _have_ noticed Jenn has a bit of a resemblance to Rachel, right?" Cole muses, breaking Santana out of her thoughts. 

"Yeah, no," Santana chuckles, glancing sideways at Cole. "They look nothing alike."

"Except they're both short and have long brown hair with bangs," Cole points out, slowly scrolling through some more of the pictures, "and those big needy eyes, and those soft puffy lips, and—San, she's like, if Rachel had a sister, it would be Jenn."

"Fuck off. They're nothing alike," she repeats, eyes focused hard on the screen of her laptop. 

Cole keeps scrolling and only mutters, " _Okay_."

Santana scoffs and then pulls the laptop away from Cole, because if she's going to keep pushing this, she doesn't deserve laptop privileges. "What are you trying to get at anyway?"

"Nothing, dude." Santana narrows her eyes, but Cole only stares back and then slowly raises her hands in defense with a hint of a smile curving at her lips. "I'm just saying they have similar features and stuff. Why so defensive, huh?"

"I'm not being defensive," she sneers, trying not to think of last week and inappropriate masturbating material. 

Cole only looks at her, unblinkingly, and it almost feels as if she _knows_. Santana's tried not to think about it—how much her body wants a certain brunette, or brunettes, if she's being honest—but damn, she's been horny lately, and ever since that day, she hasn't tried to get herself off again, too mortified to even _think_ about touching herself down there. 

But those stupid brown eyes of Cole's are still looking at her in calculating confusion, so Santana mutters, "Shut up, Cole, and go back to stalking your bassist."

Raising an eyebrow, Cole only smirks. "I didn't say anything," she singsongs, and then gamely googles Parker's name. "Though _you_ just said it all."

"What are you—"

"Nothing," Cole says, twirling a finger around her blue hair with a coy smile. "Nothing at all."

\--

Santana hasn't seen Rachel in almost twelve days now. She misses the vegan pancakes Rachel would make them on the weekends. She misses their musical marathons. She misses their arguments over whether to watch _Grey's Anatomy_ or _Castle_ on Thursday nights. Santana wants her best friend back, but the end of this extended spring break theatre internship thingy isn't coming fast enough.

So, she hangs out with Angela and Gwen. Really, that’s how fucking bored she is, but all they can seem to talk about is Daniel, which—Santana fucking _knew_ Angela and Daniel were more than friends. Ever since Daniel and Rachel went to Philly, Angela's been sulking around like a piece of her soul is missing, and it truly baffles Santana how both these incredibly hot women could be so head over heels in love with such a dim-witted dancer boy. 

He's super talented and sensitive, sure, but the kid is so dense he doesn't even realize both Gwen and Angela want him. Angela never admits to it, but it's pretty damn obvious. Gwen, on the other hand, probably talks about him in her sleep she's so hard up for some Daniel in her life. It's nauseating, and never has Santana felt so gay than when she's around girls who talk about dick like it's Jesus during Christmas time. 

"You two are idiots," she says, pouring them both another shot, because Angela is less annoying when she's drunk, and Gwen turns into an uppity bitch after only four shots. 

It's funny as hell, especially since Gwen is usually the super nice type, but after throwing back a few, she gets this challenging gleam in her eyes and says, "What do you think Rach and Danny are doing in Philly right now? She pretends she doesn't want him, but how can you not, right?"

Angela gives Gwen the most insane look ever and then sputters out some of the drink she just sipped. "That would never ever happen. Trust me."

"How can you be so sure?" Gwen asks, knitting her eyebrows worriedly. "People get horny and lonely, and we all know how Daniel used to feel about her."

Again, Angela squints her eyes, narrowing them right on Gwen, as if she's trying to telepathically communicate with her. "Because I know, okay?" she says, a little irritably. "I know, you know, and Daniel _knows_ , so that's not gonna happen."

"Um, excuse me." Santana looks between them for a moment as she throws a dingy rag over her left shoulder. "Mind filling me in here? What is it you freaks all know about Rachel, exactly?"

Angela and Gwen share a look, and then Gwen smirks mischievously. "Rachel hasn't, well..." she begins, tapping her nails on the bar counter. "You know, she's a nun. And before she left she told us that her dry spell was gonna end very soon."

With a shrug, Angela nods in agreement, so Santana quirks a curious brow and then leans in closer. She tries not to sound too wounded by the information when she inquires, "So, her and _Daniel_?"

"The fuck that would happen," Angela growls under her breath. "Not Daniel. _Definitely_ not Daniel, but perhaps some other handsome theatre mouse might, well...you know."

Actually, Santana didn't know. Rachel vocalizing how much she wants sex isn't something that happens often unless she's like, insanely trashed, so Santana kind of gets why Rachel didn't talk to her about any of this, but what the fuck, she confided in Gwen and Angela over _her_? All of these secrets with Rachel are really starting to make Santana anxious. First the diary, now this? While Santana's supposed to be her best friend, Angela and Gwen know all of her fucking shit, and it's irritating as fuck. 

Santana's just about to dig further, but then Todd appears beside her with a scowl. "Get back to work, Lopez," he says, nodding down the bar at a group of people waiting to be served. "These drinks aren't going to serve themselves."

She mutters a curse under her breath before retreating to the waiting customers, but not before sending one last unsavory glance over her shoulder at Todd as he starts chatting up Angela and Gwen. What a bitch. 

\--

She texts Rachel during her break—something small and encouraging, just to let Rachel knows she's thinking of her. It's been a few days since they've spoken one-on-one, and talking to Angela and Gwen really made Santana realize that she'd be surrounded by airheads constantly without Rachel around. 

It's been fairly warmer than usual the last couple of days, so she goes out through the backdoor and sits on a crate in the alleyway, holding on tight to her phone and wondering if Rachel will get back to her tonight. If she doesn't, that's fine. It only means Rachel's keeping herself busy, having fun with the new people she's met in her theatre internship thingy. 

"You okay?" she hears from behind her, and then turns around to find Todd standing in the doorway. 

His concern definitely throws her, and Santana absently wonders if Jenn spoke to him about his unwarranted attitude as he pulls up a crate beside her. "I'm fine," she says, shrugging a shoulder as she looks down the alleyway toward the streets. 

Rubbing his hands together, Todd bows his head before following her line of vision. "I wasn't eavesdropping or anything, but I heard your conversation with those two girls in there," he says.

Santana looks at him and then crinkles her nose. "And _how_ isn't that eavesdropping?"

"Listen, I may not be your favorite person right now," he begins, gnawing on the side of his lip, "but since I have Jenn's best interest, I have your best interest too."

"Yeah, I'm not following."

"Don't you see, Lopez? Those girls—they are Rachel's _spies_ ," Todd exasperates in a whisper, his eyes practically bugging out of his head. Staring at him, Santana scoots her crate over an inch. "They're strategically planting seeds to make you jealous, and I can see it’s working. Look, I’m not trying to insert myself into drama. I'm only opening your eyes to this so it doesn't come back to bite Jenn in the ass."

Okay. This finalizes it. Todd's lost is ever-fucking mind. "The fuck are you talking about?"

Todd only rolls his eyes, annoyed. "I'm not going to spell this out for you, because it's not my shit to tell, but if you're gonna be with Jenn, _be with her_ ," he stresses, once again butting into shit that's none of his damn business. "Don't let Rachel's friends manipulate you."

After that, he stands, wipes off the back of his jeans, and then leaves Santana out in the alleyway to piece together what the hell that just was. 

\--

Kurt's not home—but when is he ever?—so Santana pops open the red wine he was saving for himself and Henry, and pours herself a glass, and then another, and then another, and since there's nothing on TV and neither Quinn, Henry, or Cole are answering their phones, Santana decides to call Rachel, because at least she always answers. Always. Even at one in the morning on a weekday.  

"Henry said something really dumb," she says, instead of a normal greeting, like maybe hello or something. 

"What'd he say?" Rachel asks, and Santana can tell she's been sleeping by the grogginess in her voice. 

She feels a little bad about waking her up, but this is important. Well, probably. "Something stupid about how he can finally breathe now that the sexual tension between us has evaporated with your absence." 

Rachel's silent for a moment, and then skeptically, she asks, " _Henry_ said that?" 

"And you say _I_ don't have a filter." 

"You have a filter," Rachel reminds her. "It just short circuits sometimes." 

Santana nods, but it makes her head feel weird, so she stops and then stares at the ceiling. "Oh, that's right." 

"Are you okay? You sound a tad incoherent."

"Kurt's wine."

Rachel's attempt at smothering her laughter absolutely fails. "Thought so," she says with a giggle, sounding a lot more awake now. "And what did you say in response?" 

"Hm?" Santana rubs at her eyes and then tugs her socks off, because it is fucking hot in this damn loft. 

"When Henry said we have sexual tension," Rachel explains, in that singsong voice that implies she's smiling, "what did you say?" 

"I..." Santana drawls, trying to remember the conversation, because that was like, a day ago or maybe more, and she wasn't originally going to bring this up, because it felt kind of weird to mention over the phone, especially after the whole masturbate thing, but she's tipsy now, and life is always a lot less weird after taking down a few. "I didn't say anything. I mean, what if we do?" 

"What if we do, what?" 

That bitch is really going to make her say it again. "Have sexual tension..." 

There's more fucking silence, and Santana pulls her phone away from her ear for a second to make sure Rachel didn't hang up on her. The timer is still going, so Santana presses the phone back to her ear just in time to hear Rachel say, "Okay. Well. How would one even know?" 

She sounds serious all of a sudden. There's no more giggling or smiling in her voice, so Santana sits up a little bit straighter and then pulls her knees into her chest. "Well, I mean—do you, or have you ever wanted to have sex with me?" 

Rachel laughs, but it sounds different than before. Now it's all awkward sounding, and Santana tries to figure out if it's her ears playing tricks on her, but it's kind of hard to tell considering the amount of wine she's had tonight. "Santana," Rachel pauses, and then, "You're drunk, aren't you?"

"C'mon, answer the question," Santana pleads, because, "It's all in good fun." 

"Fun for _you_." 

"Fun for you too depending on your response." 

She's always been a natural flirt, and just because she's kind of dating someone now doesn't mean she's going to stop being chummy with her friends. It's fun teasing Rachel anyway, and it's not like Jenn will ever know, or care, probably. 

Rachel huffs. "You're insufferable." 

"So I've heard. You're not gonna answer the question, are you?" 

"Nope," Rachel says, "You have a girlfriend." 

Not even. Okay, maybe. Santana rolls her eyes and picks at a strand sticking out of their fabric sofa. "Jenn's not the jealous type." 

"Still nope." 

"Fine, I'll answer my own question." Santana takes a sip of her wine, because she already poured it, and she's not the wasteful type. "Yes, I have thought about having sex with you. Fantasized about it, actually." 

With liquor comes courage, and with courage comes honesty, apparently. Very impulsive honesty that she never really planned on sharing. But it's out there now, and taking it back would only make her look even dumber, so she scrunches up her nose and then impatiently waits out Rachel's silence. 

"...really?" Rachel asks meekly, after a good short while. 

Santana licks at her lips and then puts her glass back down on the coffee table. "Next question—" 

"Wait, wait, wait." There's some shuffling in the background, and Santana waits silently with her eyes closed, trying to focus on one direct thought, until Rachel comes back on the line. "You can't just retreat after making a statement like that." 

"I will and I can," she slurs, smiling at nothing in particular. "You decided not to play along, so I've decided not to elaborate." It's pretty simple, actually. If Rachel's not going to offer anything up, neither is she. This could get real fun if Rachel'd let it, but anyway, "Next question. Have you ever had a wet dream about me?" 

"Oh goodness," Rachel giggles, but she sounds all awkward again, like when a guy flirts with her in front of Santana and she doesn't know what to do with herself. "I'm not answering that." 

Throwing her head back, Santana laughs loudly, because it's not like there's anyone here to tell her to shut up, and then she pours herself another glass. "That so means yes."

"No, it doesn't," Rachel protests. 

"Yes, it does." Santana snorts at the sound of Rachel huffing under her breath. "Next question. Would you rather eat meat or...see me naked?" 

"Santana, that's ridiculous. Your question only leaves it open for me to answer the latter." 

Santana stretches out on the couch with a crooked smile. "And what's wrong with that?" 

"It's manipulative." 

"And you're no fun, but you don't see me whining about it." 

" _Santana_." 

Rachel doesn't sound particularly upset. Frustrated, maybe, so Santana relents. "Okay, okay, next question. Is the reason you're refusing to answer my questions because all of the answers end with you being sexually aroused by me?" 

Rachel sighs and says, "Santana, stop." 

"Why?" 

"Your girlfriend." 

"Oh please, we're besties," she scoffs, waving a hand dismissively. "We can talk like this." 

"You're drunk, Santana," Rachel says, in a smaller voice, obviously reluctant to finish the conversation. "And this is starting to sound very close to phone sex."

"It can't be phone sex," Santana denies, because she's had phone sex multiple times before, and this isn't even close to as explicit as she can get. "I haven't even said the word vagina yet." 

"You just did," Rachel points out needlessly. 

Santana only grins. "Uh-oh. Looks like we're having phone sex." 

"Goodnight, Santana." 

She's kind of not ready to hang up, but the digital clock above the television set says otherwise. "Okay," she drawls with a pout, hoping the sadness in her voice translates through the phone line. "Nighty night, shorty."

Rachel hangs up before she can add an 'I miss you,' but whatever. She probably already knows.

\--

She remembers the conversation as soon as she opens her eyes the next morning. "Shit," she whispers, because her head hurts, and also because she's an idiot. For some reason, her mind immediately goes back to that time Rachel was drunk and tried to get Santana to have sex with her after another failed audition. 

After all the revelations she's had about Rachel since then, Santana wonders if she would actually do it now—if she would actually give Rachel what she thought she wanted that night, Santana knowing what she knows about herself now. 

 _Fuck_. Would she? Would she, really? No. No fucking way. She'd never go there. It'd be too weird. She can fantasize about it all she wants and even drunkenly tell Rachel about her fantasies all she wants, but she'd never _ever_ physically go there with her, right? No. It'd be too awkward. 

She gets out of bed and shuffles into the bathroom with a stretch, a yawn, and a scratch to her bum. After relieving herself, she takes a peek in the mirror to find someone unrecognizable staring back. 

Maybe she just needs a haircut. 

Kurt's shoving a spoonful of yogurt into his mouth when Santana enters the kitchen. "Morning," she says, passing him on her way to the fridge. 

"Good morning," he says back, and that's pretty much it. 

Their conversations don't really get any deeper than that nowadays. Obviously Henry spilled the beans to Kurt about Santana being the devil (or angel, thank you very much) on his shoulder, so Kurt's been granting her with a stank attitude all fucking week. 

Whatever. He'll get over it. He's the one making the biggest mistake of his life, but what does Santana know? She's only a vapid lesbian who advises doing the exact opposite of U-hauling. Thinking sensibly for once really shouldn't be getting her more hate than being an impulsive jerk. When she doesn't think, it bites her in the ass. When she thinks twice, it bites her in the ass. 

There's really just no winning here, is there?

\--

She's chilling on Henry's couch, and it's two in the morning. Kurt had to work super late at Vogue—Santana _told_ Henry nothing had changed, but that boy just won't listen—so she decided to head up his way to spend the night. It's not like anyone is waiting for her back at the loft, and now that Jenn is back, they can talk on the phone without it costing a billion dollars, so that's what they do. 

They're talking about mostly mundane crap—like why Pee-Wee Herman never wore anything other than that grey suit—when Jenn says those three scary words, right out of fucking nowhere. It totally comes out of left field—like c'mon, it's only been about a month—and Santana's not expecting it in the slightest, so she falters, pauses, and then stupidly says, "Um. Cool." 

There's an awkward silence, and then Jenn breathes out, "Was—was that too soon? I'm such an idiot. We've only been dating for a month. Just forget I said anything, okay?" 

Santana opens her mouth and nothing comes out the first time, but then she finally gets it together and goes, "Wait, no. Don't take it back. You feel how you feel." 

"But you obviously don't feel the same way." 

"Well..." That's true; she doesn't love Jenn. She hasn't loved another girl in that way since Britt, which almost feels like a lifetime ago. It's been so long that Santana doesn't even know if she'd be able to recognize when she finally does fall for someone again, but she knows she hasn't yet fallen for Jenn. "I mean, I really, really like you, and I guess I could, like...I don't know, one day—" 

"Santana, it's fine. I get it," Jenn rushes to say. "Um, I gotta go." But that's pretty much bullshit, because it's not like Jenn has a job or an early morning class to get to, though Santana lets Jenn go anyway, because she already knows how mortifying it can feel to tell a girl you love her, only for her to not say it back—not in the way you want to hear it, at least. 

"Oh," Santana says, cringing at how dumb she sounds. "Okay." 

"I'll call you tomorrow?" 

She smiles kind of wobbly at that and then nods. "Sure." 

"Bye."

"Yeah, bye." 

She hangs up, and then sort of stares at the screen of her phone for a little bit before dialing a different number. She doesn't breathe out a sigh of relief until she hears Rachel's voice go, "It's three in the morning. This better be important." 

Santana ignores the snark—what she has to say is way more major than being a bitch right now. "Jenn just told me she loves me." 

Brief, calculating silence, and then, "It's only been a month." 

Santana chews on her bottom lip and says, "Yeah." 

"Wow, okay." Rachel doesn't respond immediately, and then, "That's...something. What did you say?" 

"I—oh God," Santana laughs at herself, and then rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. "I said...cool." 

"You're kidding," Rachel drawls, in a blunt monotone, but she sounds kind of amused, which succeeds in bringing a lopsided smile to Santana's lips. "Cool? You really said cool?"

"Fuck me," Santana grumbles, but she's still smiling, which— _why?_ "She loves me. Jenn told me she loves me, and I said _cool_." 

Rachel breathes out a sigh into the phone speaker. A noise that sounds like static flows through the line, and Santana takes comfort in the sound of Rachel's breathing until Rachel breaks the silence, asking "Well...are _you_?" 

Santana rubs at her temples. "Am I in love with her?" 

"No, are you a notorious arms dealer?" Rachel kids, before getting serious again. "Yes, Santana, are you in love with her?" 

That's ridiculous. Definitely not. But instead of saying that, for some reason, she answers with, "I don't know." 

Rachel takes this information in with another deep breath. "Well, are you always thinking about her? Does the idea of seeing her make you super excited?" she asks, her tone a lot less light and little more clipped than it was a few seconds ago. "Would you put yourself in front of her in a situation of extreme danger?" 

 _Hell no_ , Santana thinks, but rather, she says, "Jeez, Rach, you know I'd only do that for you." 

"Likewise," Rachel concedes gently, because—duh. Everyone and their motherfucking mom knows Rachel is Santana's number one. Not even a girlfriend can change that. "But what about the first two questions?" Rachel reminds her. "How does she make you feel?" 

"She's cool, a really good kisser, and I guess my heart flutters when she smiles sometimes," except that's only because Jenn has a really cute smile, "but I don't think I'm in love with her." 

"It's only been a month," Rachel repeats. 

Santana somehow frowns and smiles at the same time. "Yeah." 

Nothing is said for about a minute, and Santana can almost feel herself drifting off. She really wouldn't mind falling asleep on the phone with Rachel on the other line, but then she's awoken when Rachel sighs and rambles, "As much as I love hearing from you, it's still the middle of the night—or beginning of the morning...and I have to get up early tomorrow—or today, really, so..." 

Stretching her arm out, Santana lets out a tiny yawn and blinks her eyes open in the dim room. "Is this your subtle way of telling me to get lost?" 

"Santana, I'd never tell you to get lost," Rachel says, and it sounds so sincere that Santana wants to just hold on to it forever. "I need you too much for that, and vice versa, as this phone call has just proven."

Santana laughs and then anxiously nibbles on her bottom lip. "Um, Rach?" 

"Hm?" 

She's not good at confessions, but this is Rachel, and that's all the explanation she'll ever need to provide herself with. "The only girl I love right now is you." 

She can almost see Rachel's smiling face as she says, "I love you too, Santana. Now go to bed."

\--

She's so frustrated she can't even get herself off. Not even porn can put her in the right mood. It's midday, and she's bored out of her fucking mind, and usually on days like this—when Rachel's in class and Kurt's at Vogue—Santana would spend a few hours trolling YouTube, rub one out, and then take a good nap before her shift. But today that just ain't happening. 

There's just too much on her mind, and Jenn's not answering any of her text messages. Annoyed, she shuts her laptop and then rolls out of bed to make some food. She's starving, but there's nothing in the fucking fridge except peanut butter, which kind of makes her want to cry. Rachel basically hates peanut butter, but she always made it a point of restocking the jar whenever they ran out. 

Dammit. The girl's barely been gone for three weeks and Santana's already missing her more than sex. It's stupid, but she wants to call Rachel up right now, even though they just spoke on the phone early this morning. Maybe getting a night job wasn't such a good idea, because now everyone is busy during the day, and she has to work when everyone's partying at night. 

Fuck this shit. Grabbing the peanut butter, Santana heads back to her corner of the loft and picks up her phone before scrolling to that number she jotted down the other day. If she's not going to have an orgasm today she might as well do something productive with her time.

\--

Jenn calls her back, finally, but neither of them talk about those three scary words. Santana already told herself that she'd only talk about it if Jenn brought it up, but she doesn't, so maybe it's not too big of a deal. Maybe she didn't really mean it. Maybe it was a spur of the moment confession. Maybe the words just slipped out but once Jenn had time to think about it she realized she doesn't really love Santana after all. 

Anyway. None of this should matter. Santana likes the girl, but she doesn't love her. She's never even pictured herself loving anyone other than Brittany for the rest of her life. She used to imagine how she would propose, and what their wedding dresses would look like, and where they'd go on their honeymoon, how they'd raise their children. But that's such an old image now

Months ago, it all came together and Brittany was the center of her universe. Now, she doesn't even talk to Brittany anymore. Her so-called soulmate is in love with someone else, apparently, and it feels as if her love for Brittany only ever existed in another world. It used to always be Brittany. Only Brittany. 

She was the first person Santana thought of in the morning and the last person she'd think of at night. She was the person Santana told all of her deepest, darkest secrets to. She was always the first person Santana went to whenever she received important news. But things have changed, and Brittany is not that person anymore. Rachel is. 

"I'm clean," she tells Rachel over the phone one night as she cuddles up in bed, alone once again. 

Rachel hums, noncommittal. "I'm glad you took a shower today, Santana. Anything else you'd like to tell me?" she wonders absently, "Did you brush your teeth too?"

There's a million reasons why Rachel is her favorite person, and this here is just one of the many. While other people would make this awkward, Rachel only cracks a joke. "Look at you being all sarcastic and shit," Santana chuckles, shifting on to her side. "I've turned you into a monster."

"A monster who can hold her own, nonetheless," Rachel sighs, and Santana can honestly say right now that she knows Rachel better than anyone else, so when Rachel's sigh lasts just a second longer than usual, Santana knows there's something up. 

"Are those theatre bitches down there messing with you?" Santana asks, arching a brow. "Because I'll get Cole and Henry, and we'll come and beat the shit out—"

"Santana, it's fine," Rachel reassures her with a short laugh. "I’ve just been facing some intense competition, is all."

"Oh. Well." She pauses and then cracks a small smile. "It's about time somebody gave you a run for your money, Miss Broadway.”

"Oh stop, you flatter me."

Santana shrugs. "S' m'job."

There's some chatter in the background, and then some muttering that is clearly Daniel's voice, but Santana doesn't comment. Rachel's allowed to hang out with whomever she wants, at whatever hour she likes. Slowly, the chatter gets softer, and then it's gone completely after the shutting of a door. 

"Sorry about all the racket," Rachel apologizes, and then just jumps right back into the conversation. "So, were you expecting anything else? Other than clean, I mean."

"No, but it's reassuring to know that I'm healthy, and that the women I've been with are healthy too," she says, scratching at the edge of her eyebrow. "When they were with me, at least."

After making a little noise of understanding, Rachel breathes, "I'm glad."

Santana rolls back over, trying to get comfortable, but it's no use tonight. Something is off. She's not entirely sure what, but it's something. "Do you think I should tell Jenn?" Santana asks, and she would usually never mention Jenn to Rachel, but Rachel always gives the best advice, and this is something she's been stumped on for a while now—especially after the whole three scary word profession. "I mean, we really haven't spoken much since the other day when—well, you know. But like, I don't want her to think I'm only telling her I'm clean so she'll sleep with me."

"Yes, I see your point," Rachel says, silently mulling it over. "I don't know Jenn very well, Santana, so I can't exactly say how she'd respond if you told her. All I know is that if I was Jenn, I'd find it extremely thoughtful if you told me you got a screening months ago right before our first time."

Santana thinks this over and digests the information with a slow nod of her head. "Yeah, okay. Thanks," she says, and that's the last time they talk about it. 

Rachel then changes the subject to her latest project of rearranging an entire vocal performance, and Santana adds in her commentary here and there as she drifts off to the sound of her best friend's voice.

\--

She ends up not telling Jenn. Not because of what Rachel said, but because it would just feel too weird to admit, "I randomly went to the clinic to make sure I didn't have gonorrhea or something, but don't worry, despite all the unprotected sex I've had since coming to the city, I luckily haven't contracted anything dirty or life-lasting." 

She knows an STI is nothing to be ashamed of, because things happen, and shit is contracted, but Jenn isn't Rachel, and she doesn't know about her past like Rachel does. 

Santana hardly considers herself a player, because none of this has ever been a game to her. When she first came to New York, she had sex to get rid of the pain, but somehow when she met Cole and finally got over Brittany, all of that sex just turned into something casual and fun that she could do to pass the time and relieve her of her frustrations. 

She does tell Cole though, but then Cole just stares at her for a minute before saying, "Shit, maybe I should go too."

\--

Angela, Kurt, and Henry are still doing their wedding shit, but Santana wants no part in that, so she spends the weekend at Jenn's place. It's the first time she's sleeping over, and like, she even packs a bag and shit. 

She wonders if this is supposed to feel like she's in middle school, going over to her friend's house for a sleepover, but the thought is quickly dismissed when Jenn leads Santana into her bedroom as the last destination of the tour. 

There will be absolutely nothing going on in that bed tonight, is the first thought that runs through Santana's mind as she steps into the bedroom. For someone so rich, Jenn's place is pretty bohemian and plain. Especially her bedroom. 

The walls are white, and there are portraits of Marilyn Monroe, Josephine Baker, and some unknown black dude playing a saxophone leaning against the walls. There's a dusty record player in the corner next to a stack of vinyl and an even bigger stack of books. The only furniture in the entire room is Jenn's bed, so everything else is literally pushed towards the wall in uneven stacks, like a city with disproportionate skyscrapers. 

She feels a little weird being here, because it's not Cole's bed, or some random girl's bed that she'll only be occupying for a few hours. This isn't her own bed, or Rachel's bed either, which is pretty much Santana's second bed. This is her _girlfriend's_ bed, and tonight there will be no sex or inappropriate touching or nakedness underneath Jenn's crisp white sheets.

Santana doesn't know what there will be, and to be quite honest, she's always been a little bit afraid of the unknown. 

\--

The place is a mess, because Santana sucks at putting things back where she found them, so she spends the day before Rachel's return cleaning up—and not just shoving shit into closets, and dragging a wet paper towel over the counter. She _actually_ cleans by mopping up the kitchen floor, vacuuming the rug in the living area, clearing off the coffee table, and even dusting off the television set. 

The place smells like Pine Sol and a straight up Lysol can by the time she's finally done, which Rachel will definitely love, thus softening the brunt of Rachel's anger when she finds out Santana watched the whole series of _Lost_ on Netflix without her. 

That was supposed to be their little project, but Santana got tired of waiting, and truthfully, that show was the only thing that brought her comfort during the lonely days without Henry, Cole, Jenn, and Rachel. Is it sad, that she can measure an entire three weeks in episodes of _Lost_? 

Santana supposes they still have _Heroes_ and _Gossip Girl_ to binge-watch, so Rachel can't be too mad at her, right? 

The plan was that Santana would meet Rachel at Penn Station, then they'd go out for a late brunch (lunch, basically, but Rachel likes to be specific), but apparently Daniel promised to drop her off home, so Santana's _off the hook_ , as Rachel told her over the phone last night. 

Truthfully, she really wouldn't mind picking Rachel up. Like, _really_. She kind of can't fucking wait to see her, but if Rachel really wants Daniel to bring her home, then it's whatever. Santana's not going to sulk like a baby about it, so she only tells Rachel to, "Have a safe trip and don't forget to pack my souvenir." 

She doesn't cry, exactly, but tears do prickle at her eyes a little bit when she hears the locks rattling against the door, because it means Rachel's finally home. But she'll never ever fess up to that, so she wipes at her eyes before sliding the door open to help Rachel out, and when she sees her girl, it's just—

Rachel immediately drops her bags, and then they're in each other's arms, and Santana lifts Rachel from off the ground an inch or two, smiling widely when her best friend squeals into her ear. 

"Don't you ever fucking leave me ever again, munchkin, you hear me?” she whispers, sniffling back more tears, but Rachel only giggles as she steps away, eyes so big and shiny, and fuck, Santana missed her _so much_. 

Without thinking, she lightly punches Rachel in the shoulder to make up for the stupid emotions rushing through her body right now, because really, she has no other way of expressing herself without wetly exclaiming, _Oh my Gaga, I missed you so motherfucking much!_

"Still can't express your emotions without getting violent, I see," Rachel quips, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. "It's nice to see things haven't changed too much since I've left."

"Shut it, Berry," Santana chuckles, bending down to pick up one of Rachel’s bags. 

But she stops when she notices Rachel staring at her oddly. “Wait, something _is_ different,” she says, and then she leans forward and fucking _sniffs_ Santana’s collar. “You...don’t smell like tobacco.”

“Well, aren’t you observant.”

“And you don't reek of cheap cigars for once,” Rachel notes, before sticking her hands in the pouch of Santana’s sweatshirt, practically molesting her as she pats Santana down with an arched brow. “You're quitting? No _way_.”

Santana can only laugh. “Way,” she confirms, and then rolls her eyes amiably when Rachel throws herself back into Santana’s arms for yet another hug. 

“I am so proud of you,” she whispers, but Santana can only shrug as Rachel pulls away from her, because it’s only been three weeks, which _is_ a big deal, she supposes, but she still has a long way to go. Which reminds her, she needs to go to the drugstore tomorrow for more of those nicotine gum packets.

“Thanks, or whatever,” Santana murmurs, before stepping away from the door to let Rachel in, but then Rachel steps away at the same time with a hesitant glint in her eyes—an almost guilty glint. She turns her head to look down the stairwell, and Santana quirks an eyebrow when she hears the sound of heavy footsteps stomping up the steps. 

A man appears beside Rachel then, carrying another one of her suitcases that Santana didn't even realize was missing. He's tall, but not overwhelmingly so. Not tall like Finn or Todd. He looks kind of urban slash hipster-ish, almost like a homeless philosopher that Rachel just randomly picked up from off the street. 

Despite his full, shaggy beard, Santana can tell he's young—maybe even younger than herself by a year or so. She can't really tell why she has the sudden urge to punch this guy right in his face and break his stupid black-framed, thick-rimmed glasses, but the urge is there, and she has to try really hard to suppress it. 

"Who is this?" she asks flatly, eyeing him up and down before turning to Rachel with questioning eyes. 

"Santana, this is Lloyd," Rachel introduces nervously, gesturing to the guy next to her who is now holding her small hand in his firm grasp. "My boyfriend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now, don't start a riot, okay. this may all look as if I'm purposefully drawing the story out but each and every conversation and happening is for a reason. from this point on is where things get fun. I'm excited for everyone to read the next part of the series once it's done, so just stay with me. only two more parts until the end. 'til next time! o.O
> 
> tiny sneak peek of the next installment:
> 
> Rachel's bringing him over for dinner tonight, and Santana can't really say she's jumping out of her seat to hash it out with the lucky guy. To even out the playing field, she invites Jenn, mostly as a buffer—just in case, you know—to smooth things over if this Lloyd dude is as socially inept as his dumb name entails. 
> 
> Kurt was supposed to join them, but he bails at the last minute because of some fashion crisis at his job—which is always his excuse when he doesn't feel like meeting new people—so that just leaves Santana and Jenn, and Rachel and Lloyd, and for Christ's fucking sake, Santana already knows this evening is not going to end well, especially when Rachel burns the spaghetti on the stove right before their guests' arrival.

**Author's Note:**

> there are three installments left in this series (this one included), but there'll be more chapters in these last few. hope you enjoyed! ;)


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